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The verbal, sexual, and physical abuse I experienced was a three-stranded rope that wrapped my neck like a noose.
In a trauma-filled world like mine, God was an afterthought. God was irrelevant. If God did exist, and I had my doubts, He wasn’t looking out for people like me. So why would I waste my time looking for God?
Looking back, I wish I knew then what I know now. I wish I knew that I was still valuable and lovable. I wish I knew that my dignity was not determined by my circumstances but burned into me before birth.
They didn’t know they could shed their shame. They didn’t know they could get rid of their guilt. I
Talking about wounds is important, but talking about our healed wounds is just as important. Because scars are the evidence that wounds can heal. That wounds don’t last forever. That healing is possible.
Today I’m able to talk about what happened out of a place of hopefulness and
healing and c...
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In many poor communities, family members have to help each other pick up the slack by watching each other’s children. So spending my summers at a relative’s home was not as strange as it may sound initially.
They were the on-fire, Pentecostal, tongues-speaking, Holy-Ghost-baptized kind of Christians. Bishop Bryant and Mamie had strict moralistic rules for their sixteen children and expected them to be in church whenever the doors were open.
By the time I was born, Big Momma was carrying on the spiritual legacy of her parents. She
if the mood hit Big Momma right, we would hop the trolley to Tijuana or even travel to towns deeper in Mexico where we would serve poor people there.
house was like the family motel; everyone stayed there at some point. I have eleven uncles and aunts and many more cousins, so there was no telling who would be waiting when I arrived.
There were two types of people I never remember seeing in Skyline Hills: tourists and white people.
One day I was playing in the canyon with some friends, and we stumbled across a dead body. It was the first time I had seen a corpse. We stood over it for a minute talking about it and then went back to goofing off. We never told the police or anyone else because we didn’t think a murder was significant enough to report. In contrast to the dead body, the streets
Uncle Chris made Southeast San Diego’s streets look sexy, and over time, he became my chief role model in California. He was tough; I was weak.
I was hungry for male attention, and Uncle Chris offered a father-like relationship. I was hungry for acceptance, and Uncle Chris symbolized the promise of a family-like community. And I had idolized gangsta rappers like Tupac and Ice Cube and movies like Boyz n the Hood and Menace II Society. Uncle Chris seemed like the living embodiment of everything my heroes sang about. Hanging with him was like seeing all my heroes up close. Gangs have ranking systems, and I’m not sure where Uncle
As I grew older, I noticed five major roles I could possibly assume.
gangsta
I admired the pimps and hustlers.
Our community also boasted a few talented athletes.
My friendship with four boys who lived next door to Big Momma made me further question whether I wanted to follow in my uncle’s footsteps. Their dad was a music minister in a local church, and he did all he could to protect them from the streets. They weren’t allowed to leave their front yard and barely left their house. Typical OJs. Other kids in the neighborhood made fun of them—not just because they were sheltered church boys, but also because they were talented musicians and songwriters. Their dad was training them to play instruments, and even though their musical skills would be
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We would spend hours writing songs together.
So there wasn’t any place for me in California. And worse, there wasn’t a place for me back in Colorado either.
I was an excellent student early on—earning me the nickname “Straight-A Lecrae”—and no longer being challenged by the standard curriculum. So my teacher called a conference with my mom to recommend a side program for gifted students that was being developed. My mom agreed. For the first time in my life, I was given a space where I was encouraged to be creative.
But my mom, who always valued educational excellence, convinced me to try out for the program anyway. I agreed. I auditioned. I got accepted.
The program was set up like college. My major was theater, and my minor was creative writing.
When kids start living divided lives, it affects them. One minute they act like one person and the next another person. Soon they begin to forget who they really are.
This isn’t just the way kids work; it’s the way humans work.
My grades fell even further. MLK Jr. Junior High was ranked one of the worst in the state, and it ended up being featured on Nightline because of its low performance.
Life also was unraveling at home, where my anger was spilling over.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her hands shook as she inched the car backward. She thought she was going to die, which is exactly the way I wanted her to feel. Once she was gone, I doubled over laughing. My friends couldn’t believe what had just happened. It was as if I had won the prank of the year. Nobody had the guts to do what I had just done. I had earned respect. More than their admiration, I loved
the sense of power it gave me. So much of my life was spent being the victim, but in that
By the time high school arrived, I felt like I had nothing. I had lost my dream of being the second coming of Uncle Chris. I had lost the chance to grow as an artist in a specialized educational program. And I had lost hope that my dad was ever going to return home and be the man I needed in my life. I didn’t know who I was. I only knew that I didn’t fit in anywhere and that I was miserable.
Then reality set in, and I realized that while this North Dallas suburb may have had the best schools, it barely had any black people.
The weed mellowed me out a little, but the high was always temporary. I was stealing from stores, but I always ended up with something less than what I really needed. So I started drinking more heavily, trying to flush the loneliness away.
Women were the next type of object I used to cope. Maybe I could find acceptance in someone’s arms or between someone’s sheets, I thought.
My life was spinning around me, and everything was a blur. I was no longer just depressed; now I was scared of what the future held. I began doing some soul searching, asking questions about the existence of God and life after death. The way I was living, I might have to face those two sooner rather than later, so I figured I better prepare either way. One
day I eavesdropped on a conversation in one of my classes between a Christian girl, Izehi, and an atheist named Chris. Izehi was telling him all about Jesus and God and the Bible.
I started spending time in the library, researching books on religion and philosophy. I hit all the isms: Hinduism, Buddhism, Judaism, Mormonism. I finally asked my Muslim friend, Jamin, about his faith. The way he described Islam made sense to me. Their spiritual practices were pretty straightforward, and they had a book that laid out all the rules. Jamin gave me a Quran, and I started studying it at home. I even went to a mosque with him once.
Sports, sex, substances, and soul-searching had all failed to bring me the fulfillment I wanted. I had searched for answers to life’s most important questions,
I was one move away from bleeding out on the rooftop of my house. But with the glass pressed against my wrist, something held me back—hope.
Gripping a stack of pages, I began to rip chunks of paper out and throw them into the air. They fell into piles around my feet. I tried to destroy the only thing that could rescue me. My mother shook her head and left. There I was, standing alone, staring at the tattered paper and shattered glass that was scattered across the house. It was more than a mess; it was a metaphor for my fragmented life. My mom was right: Only God could help me now. But I didn’t realize it at the time because I was still blaming others for my problems and still telling myself that I could solve them all if I just
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“No one knew where you were, Lecrae. We were worried,” she said, shaking her head. Turning toward her bedroom, she looked at my stepdad: “I don’t know what to say right now. You talk to him.” My stepdad motioned for Bryan and me to sit next to him on the couch. He looked at the ground in silence for a moment, trying to think of what to say. My stepdad didn’t have a father growing up, so he didn’t know how to have a father-son style conversation. Plus, we had a tense relationship
in which he never really offered me advice. So when he finally found the words, it got my attention: “Lecrae, can’t you see that the way you’re living is not taking you anywhere?”
If you keep this up, you’re going nowhere.”
The only positive images I could think of were Fresh Prince or Theo from The Cosby Show. So I decided to channel that. WWTD: What Would Theo Do?
Then I heard about a program called InRoads that was committed to empowering minority youth in Texas. They helped kids get internships and apply for jobs and stuff. Each year, they took a group of kids on a college tour to a bunch of state schools. I signed up, and off we went.
Most of the albums looked cheesy, and then one by a group called Anointed caught my eye. The album was titled Under the Influence, and I knew something about that. So I bought it.
Love without condition This is my addiction It’s a need that only God can fill Once I got to taste it Nothing could replace it
When I got accepted to the University of North Texas, I thought my opportunity had come. On my campus visit, I discovered they offered a full ride to students who qualified for a theater scholarship. I had rejected the artistic side of myself for so long, but the skills were still there. I auditioned with a piece from the play, A Raisin in the Sun. I could tell by the looks on the theater professors’ faces that I had slayed it.
