A Stanza from the 1990s

Come on, come on

I see no changes, wake up in the morning and I ask myself
Is life worth living, should I blast myself?

Tupac Shukur 

    He was an American, a young man with many gifts. He was Black, and a male, and he had many talents and flair. He accomplished more in his short life, in the public eye, than most of us will achieve. At least in this life, the guy was a bright star. Millions of people herald him as an artist, an individual, and a victim of the system.

    What system?

    A few different systems, we can count. The human system, running by Darwinian currents, many would argue. Realism is about balance of powers, where many of the "small people" do not count that much in the scheme of things. The system of the United States of America, where most of the Black people living in 2024 are still descendants of their forefathers who were enslaved for many generations, which set up a system of segregation and inequality. It is still felt. Safe to say.

    Men and women of all colors have decried the unfairness and injustice of life in the United States for many peoples of color, as well as people of the poor classes, which too often intersects. White people can be and are poor, sure; we are an equal opportunity society of fortune and despair. But undisputedly Black people have suffered more poverty. Which leads to crime and all kinds of societal woes.

    Hence, Tupac Amaru Shukur, named after a rebellious group of rowdies in Peru, South America, grew up in a stilted system of hard knocks. He wound up dying from those schools of tough and brutal ways, no matter his fame and fortune. After pride cometh the fall, and it did for Tupac. The killer was aggrieved for a dust up of egos in Las Vegas. Fortunes little worth their time of day, but in the end costing his life. Like many others.

I'm tired of bein' poor, and even worse, I'm black
My stomach hurts, so I'm lookin' for a purse to snatch
Cops give a damn about a negro
Pull the trigger, kill a n-, he's a hero

Like many others.

That is the first stanza of the song. But it is not the last.

What other systems are there? The criminal justice system, the drug dealer gang system, the education system. 

    The system of the down.

    I grew up in my own systems, and much of it was not based on race, but then again, according to some, it was all about race. Privilege. 

    Was I privileged by race to be a white boy, then a man? Did I have to work less, try less, in order to achieve anything or the eventual things that I received? Maybe. Was I blessed to be raised in a middle class college neighborhood, free of most serious and even petty crimes? Was I blessed or lucky or fortunate or privileged to be raised by two parents, both white, who did not drink or carouse or waste unneeded dollars on crazy things? I had friends of all colors, some of whom did such things. Some died of AIDS, I believe. Race did not play into those outcomes too much, as I see it. 

    Choices. Free will. Hard work. Determination.

    Our own choices determine, enable, produce, and make up a lot or sometimes most of what we are, who we become, how successful we will be.

    In the case of Mr. Shukur, his background, his choices, his lot, his will took him to an ill end. It could have happened to anyone as it occurred, but not really.

    He chose his fate. Buddies who play rough, die rough.

    Resting in peace, we hope for you, brother.

    Thanks for all your well sung verses. And, I am sorry that these very words that reflected your life and existence would become so awfully true.