They say we’re all biased. In my case, Kendrick Lamar proved it.
But don’t judge me yet—you can do that later.
First, let me try to explain.
I was born in 1977.
My young brain, as such, was nourished in the 1980s.
I was regularly warned about crack cocaine. There were daily reports of gun violence. Mass incarceration was starting to ramp up. All told, it was not a great era for the American city.
When I ventured outside my sheltered existence, I saw reality with my own eyes.
And even before Kendrick Lamar was born, I was listening.
I heard Ice-T.
I heard Public Enemy.
And I heard N.W.A.
But mostly, I just heard injustice.
At a young age, the seeds of a limousine liberal had been planted.
I said all the right things. I hung out in soup kitchens. When the day was over, I retreated to the suburbs.
Then life, it could be said, went on.
By 2018, I had upgraded my existence to the adult version. I still lived in the suburbs, but I was paying the mortgage myself. Instead of soup kitchens, I was hanging out in dialysis units, taking care of a predominantly African American population. And I was, of course, still listening.
I heard the nurses rave about a guy named Kendrick Lamar.
He had already been at it for 15 years, but those conversations were my introduction to the man who had just won the Grammy for Best Rap Album—again.
I read his bio and watched a few videos.
Born in 1987—in Compton, California. Check.
Father was a gang member. Check.
Cornrows. Check.
Frequent use of the N-word. Check.
I recognized the patterns.
Then I forgot about him.
In 2024, I was reintroduced.
Lamar had a beef with someone named Drake, and the two started slinging diss tracks at each other. It was a classic rap war, 21st-century style.
One song stood out.
I pulled up the video.
I checked a few more boxes, and I moved on.
On February 3, 2025, I remembered that Lamar would be the Super Bowl LIX halftime performer.
By that point, I was in the throes of a full-blown midlife crisis, claiming to be someone who writes about all things US. Not mentioning the entertainment at the country’s greatest spectacle was not an option.
So I pulled up the internet again.
Straight-A student.
Influenced by John Keats.
A proponent of jazz.
Winner of the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for Music.
Embarrassed, I decided to change course.
And now, as promised, is the time for judgement.
