So my mom doesn’t like 2pac. 2pac said lots of words that my mom didn’t (doesn’t) want me saying and 2pac did lots of things that my mom didn’t (doesn’t) want me doing.
But I like 2pac.
I’m not here to endorse every lyric or comment 2pac ever produced. (NOTE: I tried to give 2pac the opportunity to endorse/reject everything I stand for – he was unavailable for comment.)
I like his passion and vocabulary. I like his social conscious. I like his open struggle with his ego and his continued pursuit of the arts. I like the transparency of his story. I like his struggle with God. I like the endorphins his music produces for me.
Now, I’m not trying to defend 2pac, yet. I’ll save that for my book.
I’m sure there are plenty of moms, dads, guardians, and politicians that don’t like that I like 2pac. My mom, however, decided to choose her battles. Thank God.
It was (is) a musical preference that has proven to be inconsequential – if not, arguably beneficial – in terms of how I “turned out,” and instead of this being a venue for judgement it was a venue for understanding. I’ll never forget how empowering it was that my mom was willing to listen to me try to explain my stance.
As adults, there are definitely times when we as mentors/parents need to weigh-in and help guide/steer the next generation. And I believe there are other times when we owe it to the next generation to sit back and just try to understand. I think the hardest part is trying to figure out the difference between those times to guide and those times to understand.
My mom doesn’t like 2pac… but I bet somewhere deep inside, even she would admit, my mom likes that I like 2pac. And that’s why I love her.