Buck

A coming-of-age story about navigating the wilds of urban America and the shrapnel of a self-destructing family, Buck shares the story of a generation through one original and riveting voice. MK Asante was born in Zimbabwe to American parents: his mother a dancer, his father a revered professor. But as a teenager, MK was alone on the streets of North Philadelphia, swept up in a world of drugs, sex, and violence. MK’s memoir is an unforgettable tale of how one precocious, confused kid educated himself through gangs, rap, mystic cults, ghetto philosophy, and, eventually, books. It is an inspiring tribute to the power of literature to heal and redeem us. Praise for Buck “A story of surviving and thriving with passion, compassion, wit, and style.” --Maya Angelou “In America, we have a tradition of black writers whose autobiographies and memoirs come to define an era. . . . Buck may be this generation’s story.” --NPR “The voice of a new generation. . . . You will love nearly everything about Buck .” -- Essence “A virtuoso performance . . . [an] extraordinary page-turner of a memoir . . . written in a breathless, driving hip-hop prose style that gives it a tough, contemporary edge.” -- The Philadelphia Inquirer “Frequently brilliant and always engaging . . . It takes great skill to render the wide variety of characters, male and female, young and old, that populate a memoir like Buck . Asante [is] at his best when he sets out into the city of Philadelphia itself. In fact, that city is the true star of this book. Philly’s skateboarders, its street-corner philosophers and its tattoo artists are all brought vividly to life here. . . . Asante’s memoir will find an eager readership, especially among young people searching in books for the kind of understanding and meaning that eludes them in their real-life relationships. . . . A powerful and captivating book.” --Hector Tobar, Los Angeles Times “Remarkable . . . Asante’s prose is a fluid blend of vernacular swagger and tender poeticism. . . . [He] soaks up James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston and Walt Whitman like thirsty ground in a heavy rain. Buck grew from that, and it’s a bumper crop.” -- Salon “ Buck is so honest it floats--even while it’s so down-to-earth that the reader feels like an ant peering up from the concrete. It’s a powerful book. . . . Asante is a hip-hop raconteur, a storyteller in the Homeric tradition, an American, a rhymer, a big-thinker singing a song of himself. You’ll want to listen.” -- The Buffalo News ...

Auteur

MK Asante

Texte du rabat

"A story of surviving and thriving with passion, compassion, wit, and style."-Maya Angelou

"In America, we have a tradition of black writers whose autobiographies and memoirs come to define an era. . . . Buck may be this generation's story."-NPR

A coming-of-age story about navigating the wilds of urban America and the shrapnel of a self-destructing family, Buck shares the story of a generation through one original and riveting voice. MK Asante was born in Zimbabwe to American parents: his mother a dancer, his father a revered professor. But as a teenager, MK was alone on the streets of North Philadelphia, swept up in a world of drugs, sex, and violence.

MK's memoir is an unforgettable tale of how one precocious, confused kid educated himself through gangs, rap, mystic cults, ghetto philosophy, and, eventually, books. It is an inspiring tribute to the power of literature to heal and redeem us.

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1

The Fall

The fall in Killadelphia. Outside is the color of corn bread and blood. Change hangs in the air like the sneaks on the live wires behind my crib. Me and my big brother, Uzi, in the kitchen. He’s rolling a blunt on top of the Source, the one with Tyson on the cover rocking a kufi, ice-grilling through the gloss. Uzi can roll a blunt with his eyes closed.

Cracks, splits, busts.

“The rawest crews in Philly are all three letters,” he tells me. I read the cover through the tobacco guts and weed flakes: “The Rebirth of Mike Tyson: ‘I’m Not Good. I’m Not Bad. I’m Just Trying to Survive in this World.’ ”

Awaking crews in a rude fashion

On they ass like Mike Tyson at a beauty pageant 1

I do this--spit lyrics to songs under my breath--all day, every day. The bars just jump out of me no matter where I am or what I’m doing. It’s like hip-hop Tourette’s.

Dumps, spreads, evens.

“JBM--Junior Black Mafia. Of course us, UPK--Uptown Killaz. PHD--Play Hero and Die.”

Tears, licks, wraps.

“HRM--Hit Run Mob. EAM--Erie Ave. Mobsters. ABC--Another Bad Creation.”

Folds, rolls, tucks. Another perfect blunt, jawn looks like a paintbrush.

Jawn can mean anything--person, place, or thing. Sometimes if we’re telling a story and don’t want people to know what we’re talking about, we’ll plug jawn in for everything. The other day I was at the jawn around the corner with the young jawn from down the street. We get to the jawn, right, and the ngh at the door is all on his jawn, not knowing I had that jawn on me. Man, it was about to be on in that jawn.

“Then you got all the songs: AFD--‘Ass for Days,’ CIA--‘Crack in America,’ FAG--‘Fake Ass Gangsta,’ HAA--‘Here’s Another Asshole,’ OPP--‘Other People’s Property,’ PWA--‘Pussy Weed Alcohol,’ and Philly’s own PSK--‘Park Side Killas.’ ”

“Schoolly D . . .” I hear Schoolly D’s voice in my head. “PSK, we makin that green . . . ,” I start.

“People always say, ‘What the hell does that mean?’ ” Uzi finishes.

“P is for the people who can’t understand how one homeboy became a man . . .” Both bopping to the subs in our domes. Boom, bap bap, boom-bap.

“S is for the way we scream and shout . . .”

“One by one . . .” He lands a soft hook on my cheek.

“I knock ’em out!” we both rap, laughing as he follows his punch through. I try to tap his chin but can’t reach.

“Your arms too short to box with God,” he says like Big Daddy Kane in “Mortal Combat,” Uzi’s anthem.

Uzi is the color of walnuts and has a long, sharp face like the African masks my dad hangs up everywhere. His name is Daahoud, my parents call him Daudi, and the hood calls him Uzi. He’s got a bunch of other names too, like some superhero: Oohwop, Daa-Ooh, Uzito, Wop da Culture, Cool D, Pinch P, Big Ooh, Barkalark, Droptimus Rhyme, Big Fly, and Stilt the Kilt.

A fast knock hits the window.

“Who dat?” Uzi says, running the flame across the blunt, drying it. I push the window open, cool air rushes in.

“Yo, what up, Malo?”

“It’s Ted!” I yell back to Uzi. “What up, Ted?” Ted is Uzi’s best friend. He’s like yay high, albino light, and bulldog stocky. He’s got a pug nose with freckles spread across it like crumbs. His nicknames are Ted Money, Reds the Ghost, Teddy Rux, and Thiefadore Burgalor.

“Where ya brother at?” Gold ropes dangle over his Tommy Hill hoodie, and the Beijing dye on his shape-up makes his hairline look airbrushed.

“Right here,” I say, leaning out the window. Uzi puts the blunt behind his ear. Pushes me aside.

“Ted Money, waddup?”

Ted checks both coasts like a lookout boy. “We got a car,” he says, hitchhiker thu…