My Voice: A Memoir (2 page)

FINDING THE MIC

1971 TO
1997

BEAT STREET

I
said a hip hop / The hippie the hippie / To the hip hip hop and ya don’t stop the rock / To the bang-bang boogie / Say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat . . .

The seeds were planted for my obsession with hip-hop as soon as I heard those opening lines of the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight.” Whenever I hear that song, I’m instantly taken back to a night in September 1979, when I was eight years old and used to stay uptown at my grandmother’s apartment in Washington Heights. Even though I was supposed to be asleep, I snuck out of bed and peeked into the living room, where my aunts Melanie and Cindy, my mom’s younger sisters, were hosting one of their house parties. “Rapper’s Delight” was blasting off the record player, and I was completely mesmerized. I didn’t know what I was hearing, but the beat and the rhyming lyrics were infectious.

Nothing could be greater than this!

I looked around at my aunts’ friends dancing and laughing and
partying like whatever problems they had in the world didn’t exist, and “Rapper’s Delight” became the coolest thing I’d ever heard in my whole eight years on this planet. I was hypnotized. Like something inside me had been changed and now I was ready to hear and feel more of what I’d felt that night.

Where I come from, there were a lot of us kids having a similar experience. In fact, if you look at the history of hip-hop, it sprang from the same neighborhoods in the same time period as I did—from its roots in the house parties of the early 1970s, not unlike the ones my aunts would throw at my grandmother’s apartment on Dyckman Street.

It was there—and at the nearby homes of other family members in the Bronx—where I was first exposed to the same melting pot of musical and cultural influences that also helped shape hip-hop. And on both sides of my family tree, which was mostly Puerto Rican but also Dominican and Cuban, there was always some kind of music playing, something great cooking, and we definitely had colorful characters and strong voices.

My mother, Shirley Maldonado, who raised me as a single mom, was no exception. At seventeen, she had gotten pregnant and then had me when she was eighteen. She was married one year before she walked in on my father, Julio (aka Nat) in the shower with another woman—or something like that. Despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, my mother always had dreams of getting out of a dysfunctional situation and doing better for herself—having more, learning more, going further. She just wanted more.

Petite, dark-haired, and fair-skinned, my mother always looked younger than other moms, yet her drive and independence made her seem more mature than most. Even though she and I ended up moving a lot in my early years, what I remember most was growing up with the knowledge that I was loved.

And that love was always on display whenever we spent time uptown, visiting my grandmother Livia and her husband, Tommy—whom she married after a rough relationship with her first husband, my grandfather Victor. My grandma Livia is a tiny little woman who has a natural warmth. She’s been through a lot and has seen a lot and she’s worked hard her whole life. Still she’s one of the funniest people I know. I get such a kick out of her! Her husband, Tommy, is a stand-up guy with a great smile and a short buzz cut left over from his service in the Marines. Tommy is a real Puerto Rican, strong and stern—but the kind of stern that kids actually like. In fact, he’s the man I know as my grandfather, probably the only steady male figure I’ve ever had in my life. If I ever decide I want to be married, Tommy would be the one to walk me down the aisle.

The other members of the household in those years included Aunt Melanie, Aunt Cindy, and Uncle Steven, my mom’s three younger siblings. They were all close in age, so there were a lot of sibling fights, usually over clothes or something stupid like that, but they escalated quickly and definitely kept the household lively. Cindy, born after my mother, was the middle child, who was very close to my mom, feisty and petite at four eleven. And Melanie, the youngest, liked to party and hit the clubs in the eighties. She was over five foot eight—which was unusually tall for the whole family. Steven, the only boy in the family, was rambunctious as a kid and later struggled with mental health issues. Even so, he was really close with my grandmother, and she always did her best to protect him.

Our family’s roots uptown had been planted all the way back in the 1940s when my mother’s grandfather Miguel, Livia’s father, came from Cuba to 172nd and St. Nicholas. We all called him Uelo, short for
Abuelo
(“grandpa” in Spanish). Uelo, who I just adored, had suffered the loss of his wife—my great-grandmother, who was from the Dominican Republic—after a tragic car accident that took her life before I was born.
I never met her, but my great-grandmother’s death haunts me to this day. For good reason.

Uelo, always obsessed with taking photos, used to photograph everything and actually took pictures of the car wreck that killed my great-grandmother. The images of that car crash have stayed with me my whole life. To this day I’m never fully comfortable sitting in the passenger seat of a car.

Uelo was a larger-than-life figure, and I loved going to visit him. A fair-skinned Cuban, not tall but hefty—he liked to eat—Uelo wore thick reading glasses and long-sleeved flannel shirts and would keep a little disposable camera tucked in his shirt pocket so he could take pictures wherever he went. Uelo was known on the block. He’d walk into the Dominican restaurant and they’d say: “
El Viejo Miguel, arroz blanco, habichuela y un bistec
?” Yes, they knew his order before he told them. He was that type of guy.

Uelo also taught me something about the reality of the neighborhood. Despite the fact that he was known on the block, he admitted that he had to be careful because he was also getting robbed . . . regularly!

“I don’t mind if it’s with a gun, but it’s the knives that scare me.” He explained his robbery preference.

As a kid this was terrifying shit. Plus, it made me really angry. He was an old man! What kind of animal would rob an old man?! Especially my Uelo! Oh my God, it makes me mad remembering it today. Probably more mad than he ever was about it.

Uelo lived so long that when he did finally pass away at the age of 105, I couldn’t believe he was really gone. That was more than eight years ago and I still miss him.

My mother and I lived with Uelo briefly, in between apartments of our own in Washington Heights and the Bronx. Between our stays with Uelo and those with my grandmother Livia and her husband, Tommy,
I felt lucky to get to know the older members of our family and to hear their stories.

As a kid I didn’t know the details of Livia’s divorce from my biological grandfather Victor. But as time went on I heard of his struggles with alcohol and gambling addiction and how drinking sometimes made him mean and often verbally abusive. His kids had different perspectives, but I think my mother, being the eldest, saw the most and the worst of it. What I’ve come to learn is that children of alcoholics have different MOs for coping. They either remove themselves or they learn how to lie or even turn to alcohol in some cases. Some cope better than others, but what I
do
know is that my family to this day has remnants of his addiction.

We all have family histories that are not perfect. Or at least I like to think that one of the reasons I’m sympathetic to people’s flaws and struggles is because I really believe everybody’s bullshit is often not even about you—it’s about all the bits and pieces of where and what you come from.

•   •   •

A
s best I can remember, my father, Julio (or Nat, as most of the family called him) Martinez, would have qualified as tall, dark, and handsome. The time I got to spend with him was at my grandmother Petra’s apartment on 193rd in Washington Heights. My father would hoist me up onto his shoulders as soon as I arrived.

I only remember him as fun, throwing me up in the air like that and making me laugh like crazy. I didn’t get to see my dad a lot, so like with most kids, the parent that you see the least, you’re the most excited when you do see them. I’m sure that had to get on my mother’s nerves.

What got on
my
nerves whenever I visited my dad was that there always seemed to be different women around who were always
over-the-top nice to me. But I never fell for it. Even as a child, I had a good sense of when people were full of shit.

Aside from that, I loved everything about visiting my grandmother Petra—who adored and pampered me to no end. As the super of the building where they lived, she had this whole big basement floor, so there was plenty of room for both my father and my uncle Raymond to live there with her. My grandma Petra was old-school Puerto Rican and, in my memory, looked a lot like Celia Cruz. She had the same nails, that same complexion. She was a good woman with a big heart. She rented one of the rooms in the basement to this guy she referred to as the “Blind Man,” which I know sounds rude, but she’d feed him and take care of him like he was a member of the family. She and the Blind Man would drink Schaefer beers together in front of the TV and watch telenovelas till someone fell asleep.

One of my earliest memories of being at my grandma Petra’s took place when I was really little and had come down with a severe case of scarlet fever. My temperature was dangerously high, and I could tell how worried everyone was. Grandma immediately proceeded to give me baths in holy water because it was her thinking that the Santos would cure me. And I have to give it to her, because after that the fever broke. I can still see all the little statues of her Santos and the rosary beads on the side of her dresser. She believed.

In hindsight I realize there was a lot of dysfunction in that house. I rarely remember my grandmother without a can of beer in her hand, and I have too many memories of gunshots outside when I stayed there. One night the gunshots seemed louder than normal and the reaction on my grandma’s face was different, too. In less than a minute, I turned to see my dad and my uncle as they busted into the apartment, out of breath, before disappearing into my father’s room.

My dad was always in the streets, hanging out with his friends on the corner all day, and I’d be right out there with him whenever I could. At around the age of eight, I watched my father get into a fistfight with a guy who pulled a switchblade out of his back pocket. My father ran. The next thing I know, I’m chasing the guy who’s chasing my dad down the block with a knife—because I’m trying to run after my father. And then my dad’s girl of the moment starts chasing after me. We were like a parade of dysfunction running down 187th street.

Nothing terrible happened. I wound up running out of breath and getting pulled into a building lobby by the stupid girlfriend. We waited there until my dad’s friends eventually found us. I saw a lot of shit there I shouldn’t have seen at that age. Like when I picked up a handgun that was left sitting on the top of the television. I’m holding it in my hand in awe of its weight and my grandmother comes in freaking the fuck out, screaming in Spanish at my father. My Spanish wasn’t the best, so I didn’t really understand what she was saying, but I knew it wasn’t good.

None of it was good.

The crazy thing is that as clear as most of these memories are, I only have one recollection of actually seeing my parents together, ever. My mom picked me up from my grandmother’s house one afternoon and my father was there. They seemed to be pretty cordial when he asked if we could get ice cream together before she took me home. To my surprise, my mother agreed.
Wait?! What?! All three of us together?? And there’s going to be ice cream?!
I was overjoyed and bolted to the other room to grab my things. You would’ve thought we were going to Disney World. I was putting my shoes on, excited and eager, when the house phone rang and everything stopped. I heard my father scream and I ran to the living room to find him on his knees, shouting into the phone, ”Nooooooo! Please God no! Where is he? Where the fuck is he?!” They had murdered
his best friend, Dom, a few blocks away. I just remember him screaming, “They killed Dom! They killed Dom!” My mom rushed me out of there. I remember realizing there would be no ice cream and also that I probably wouldn’t see my dad again for a while.

My grandma Petra passed away not too long after. I was ten years old, and I never saw my father again.

I don’t know what happened. After the funeral, it was like that whole side of the family just disappeared out of my life. Gone. Years later my mother told me that my father struggled with heroin, and relatives had called her and said, “You know, Nat’s in bad shape. He’s in a center trying to beat it and detox.” They wanted my mother to bring me to go see my father, with the hope that maybe seeing me could help him. My mother said she thought about it but ultimately she didn’t want to subject me to that, so she decided no. He disappeared after that.

As a kid I’m not sure I realized what was even happening for quite some time. But months would eventually turn into years. I never saw him again.

As an adult I don’t have bad feelings toward my father. I feel like he was somebody who was struggling with his own issues and being a parent didn’t really work. So, past a certain time, he no longer was.

From then on it was just my mom, and she always made sure I felt loved. Even so, there was some negative fallout. In relationships to this day I don’t easily let others in. I believe in having four close friends, not twenty. Some people say I’m guarded, but I say I’m careful. And maybe that’s not always a bad thing. In my business it’s actually protected me from a lot of bullshit. So, at the end of the day, the way I was raised—complications and all—made me stronger and smarter about the people I do choose to let in.

•   •   •

O
ur move to Brooklyn when I was eight could not have come any sooner for my mother, the ever-evolving Shirley, who was steadily moving up the career ladder after getting her start as a secretary at PolyGram Records and then transitioning from the label to a job at the radio station WYNY, all while doing whatever she could to find the right child care to keep me out of trouble.