Essays & Letters · ·6 min read
A Letter to My Homeboi, and Every Man in the Hood Who Forgot He Deserves More
This isn’t going to be like my other writings. It’s not polished philosophy or travel musings—it’s something closer to bone. It hits the core of who I am, the part that grew up around every kind of person, from every block, carrying trauma like air in our lungs. It’s not an essay; it’s a plea. A plea to someone I love, but also to every man who’s ever felt trapped between survival and becoming.
“Blame it on crack, you can blame it on the system Blame it on the fact that 12 got jurisdiction To ride around in neighborhoods that they ain’t ever lived in Blame it on the strain that you feel when daddy missing Blame it on Trump shit, blame it on Clinton Blame it on trap music and the politicians Or the fact that every black boy wanna be Pippen But they only got twelve slots on the Pistons Blame it on the rain, Milli Vanilli with the disk skip What I’m tryna say is the blame can go deep as seas Just to blame ‘em all I would need like twenty CD’s There’s all sorts of trauma from drama that children see Type of shit that normally would call for therapy But you know just how it go in our community Keep that shit inside it don’t matter how hard it be Fast forward, them kids is grown and they blowing trees And popping pills due to chronic anxiety I been saw the problem but stay silent ‘cause I ain’t Jesus This ain’t no trial if you desire go higher please But fuck that now I’m older I love you ‘cause you my friend Without the drugs I want you be comfortable in your skin I know you so I know you still keep a lot of shit in You running from yourself and you buying product again I know you say it helps and no I’m not trying to offend But I know depression and drug addiction don’t blend Reality distorts and then you get lost in the wind And I done seen the combo take niggas off the deep end One thing about your demons they bound to catch up one day I’d rather see you stand up and face them than run away I understand this message is not the coolest to say But if you down to try it I know of a better way Meditate” — J. Cole
Dear Homeboi,
I hate the phrase “best friend.” It feels small and marketable—like a t-shirt slogan. You and I have something messier and truer. If I had to pick one person to call at 2 a.m., you’d be it. Ya tu sabes.
I don’t even know where to begin. Thirteen years ago our paths collided and never quite let go. I was on a walk today and remembered the time I was a genuine piece of shit and you called me an “asshole” as I tried to end our friendship like it was nothing. Do you remember what that quarrel was about? I don’t fully. Something about a girl—you dated her, I said she was bad news. Whatever the particulars, I’ve never forgotten the line: “You a real asshole because you know I have abandonment issues and you keep doing this.” You were right. I was already abandoning myself—my dreams, my edges—and out of that fear I kept abandoning you too. Strange, isn’t it? We push people away to avoid being pushed away, and in the process we become exactly what we feared.
I was always worried catching up with you would make you think I’d turned into some California hippie. Maybe I have a little. I admit I’m getting weirder by the year. It’s quieter over here; quieter doesn’t mean less wrestling. It just means the wrestling has different rooms now. The other day, when I babbled on the phone and tried to explain that everything is connected and that maybe the answer is love, but most importantly to love yourself — even if I only scratched .0001% of the surface — you listened. That matters. You gave this a shot. I need you to know the impact you’ve had on my life.
First: I’m worried about you. An empath without structure is a bleeding thing. Your emotional intelligence carries you like a flag, at work and everywhere else, but you don’t yet know how to steady it. I will not be the friend who watches you self-harm with passive habits and excuses. The weed is not the answer anymore. There’s more on the other side — and no, I’m not trying to moralize you into sobriety; I’m asking you to be curious enough to find out who you are without the crutch. Dig. Meditate. Ask the bright, brutal questions: What am I truly afraid of? What story keeps me safe in failure? Who am I if I drop that story?
We are, both of us, spectacularly messy resilience machines. Don’t romanticize the chaos—remember when you became a PM this year? Let that sink in. You had a setback; I’ve been fired, and I have sat on the floor with a bottle and a guitar singing the worst songs to myself for days. I watched the victim narrative like a ritual. I blamed the economy, tech, the HR department, the Finance Department, my ex for breathing air. Then I stopped. The gap between failure and bounce-back—that’s the crucible. That’s where we find out what we’re made of. I will not stand by while you talk yourself into oblivion. I’m scared when you start expecting the other shoe to drop.
My friend, sometimes that shoe dropping means a better shoe falls into your lap. Like some Retro 4’s.
Do you remember that night in my busted hooptie by the GW Bridge? Rain, frozen seats, two idiots too tired to care—then that pact: “Even if we end up in a cardboard box, as long as one of us got a box, both of us have a home.” I hold that pact like scripture. I know you’re real because you’ve never asked me for anything more than my knowledge and my presence. I remember you shouting my name at a party when we were drunk—“She’s the real deal, bro! She be studying and doing shit all the time!”—and I still dream about that night. Those are the receipts I keep.
Bro, I haven’t “made it” yet — I’m still becoming — but I’m in rooms now I once read about. I want to stand up in those rooms and shout your name the way you shouted mine. Don’t give up. And seriously—consider leaving Queens; that address is a whole-ass math problem, I’m not even sure how I would find your apartment without doing algebra and I worry about you.
Stop hiding when things get hard. Pick up the phone. Blast through my DND. Come over to the crib. Eat some good food. Laugh a little. You are cherished. You are adored. You deserve every single thing five-year-old you ever wanted: a place to sleep, a person to believe in you, a life that doesn’t feel like one long survival. Let’s stop surviving and start building the life we swore we’d share if one of us snagged a box.
I love you, mate. I can’t lose you.
—Suki