[📚 Book 📚] Raw: My Journey into the Wu-Tang by Lamont "U-God" Hawkins (Discussion Thread)
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Cheech&Chong
rip chinx
I'll be picking my copy up this weekend. I wanna grab that lo life book to. Should be some good reading
Big Mel
@bigboss
INSTA COP
nikka you haven't read a book since 2011? Come on dog... Seriously. Don't tell nobody else that shyt. You don't look cool cause you read two hip hop books in a decade. FOH
I'm worse. Not dogging the brother
Come on man... lol. I am sincerely bothered. Books really are complexed detailed thoughts, explained. Gotta read books.
DaRealness
I think very deeply
Started reading this on the train ride home. That part about Mike Tyson had me like 
. It's funny cos in Tysons bio he described Brownsville the exact same way.
. It's funny cos in Tysons bio he described Brownsville the exact same way.
Jimmy Two-Times™
Coli Mods Catch Me If U Can Forgive Me Imma Ridah™
Does anyone have a link for both AZ and Cormega's books? 
Real N Quotes
East Is In The House OMG
Sounds like pre boxing Mike Tyson
my uncles and older cousins in ENY told me worse stories about homie than this 
Sir Brehsington
Mr. Brehsident
Salute!
LevelUp
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐻𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑
Ghostface was friends with C Allah, a notorious gangster motherfukker
from West Brighton. C Allah was invited to the Hill, and at one of the rec
parties, decided to cut my man Sam Bones’s face for no reason. He was too
big for any of us to handle solo. And he must’ve thought we were too scared
of him for cutting Bones, who was a hundred pounds soaking wet and just a
kid.
So we all waited for him at a transfer junction on the Island, watching for
him. As soon as he came off the bus, somebody spotted him. “There go C
Allah.”
Even seeing the hundred dudes waiting to beat his ass, he showed no fear
as he came up to us. He had the heart of two hundred motherfukkers. I don’t
know what he was thinking, but there was no fear whatsoever on his face as
he approached. He was 5 Percent, and I guess maybe he thought that since I
was a Godbody, too, and a few others of the Wreck Posse were 5 Percent, that
we wouldn’t do anything to him. He walked right up to us like we didn’t have
the nerve to do anything.
No one said another word. We waited for a minute as he reached the crew.
He came over to me and gave me dap. He went over to Love God and gave
him dap. “That shyt wasn’t right, God. It wasn’t right,” C Allah said.
One of my friends, Looney, started it all by punching C Allah in the face.
And just like that, all of us rushed him. To his credit, he fought a few of us off,
but he couldn’t fight a hundred of us. Once he realized how many of us were
out for blood, he ran. He ran to the ferry and we chased his ass onto the boat.
He chilled by the police for the whole ride, so we couldn’t do anything there.
We just lurked nearby, salivating, waiting to exact our revenge.
Police escorted him off the ferry to the subway. Once he went downstairs,
the cops went back to the ferry and we caught him downstairs waiting for the
1 train to pull up. He hopped on, but we jumped right on after him. We
climbed all over this motherfukker and took him down, just pounding on him,
and there were so many of us he couldn’t do much. If we’d wanted to, we
could have hurt C Allah really bad, but we just gave him a universal
beatdown. That’s where you just use fists and maybe your feet on someone;
no knives, no clubs, no guns. You might feel like you wanna die when we got
done with you, but you aren’t gonna.
He took his lumps and never came back to Park Hill again. He spent his
whole life in jail except a couple years here and there, and he’s currently in on
a thirty-year murder charge. By the time he comes home again, I’ll be an old
man with grandchildren.
Funny enough, seventeen years after his beatdown, I last saw him in the
studio with Ghostface Killah when he was making Ironman. Ghost has always
liked troublemakers because he’s a troublemaker himself. He’s just not happy
unless he’s stirring things up, so he and C Allah fit together like two
motherfukkin’ peas in a pod.
But I left them crazy street dudes alone for the most part, mainly because
they were too hardheaded about most things, and I couldn’t keep getting
involved in that drama to help keep things cool.
from West Brighton. C Allah was invited to the Hill, and at one of the rec
parties, decided to cut my man Sam Bones’s face for no reason. He was too
big for any of us to handle solo. And he must’ve thought we were too scared
of him for cutting Bones, who was a hundred pounds soaking wet and just a
kid.
So we all waited for him at a transfer junction on the Island, watching for
him. As soon as he came off the bus, somebody spotted him. “There go C
Allah.”
Even seeing the hundred dudes waiting to beat his ass, he showed no fear
as he came up to us. He had the heart of two hundred motherfukkers. I don’t
know what he was thinking, but there was no fear whatsoever on his face as
he approached. He was 5 Percent, and I guess maybe he thought that since I
was a Godbody, too, and a few others of the Wreck Posse were 5 Percent, that
we wouldn’t do anything to him. He walked right up to us like we didn’t have
the nerve to do anything.
No one said another word. We waited for a minute as he reached the crew.
He came over to me and gave me dap. He went over to Love God and gave
him dap. “That shyt wasn’t right, God. It wasn’t right,” C Allah said.
One of my friends, Looney, started it all by punching C Allah in the face.
And just like that, all of us rushed him. To his credit, he fought a few of us off,
but he couldn’t fight a hundred of us. Once he realized how many of us were
out for blood, he ran. He ran to the ferry and we chased his ass onto the boat.
He chilled by the police for the whole ride, so we couldn’t do anything there.
We just lurked nearby, salivating, waiting to exact our revenge.
Police escorted him off the ferry to the subway. Once he went downstairs,
the cops went back to the ferry and we caught him downstairs waiting for the
1 train to pull up. He hopped on, but we jumped right on after him. We
climbed all over this motherfukker and took him down, just pounding on him,
and there were so many of us he couldn’t do much. If we’d wanted to, we
could have hurt C Allah really bad, but we just gave him a universal
beatdown. That’s where you just use fists and maybe your feet on someone;
no knives, no clubs, no guns. You might feel like you wanna die when we got
done with you, but you aren’t gonna.
He took his lumps and never came back to Park Hill again. He spent his
whole life in jail except a couple years here and there, and he’s currently in on
a thirty-year murder charge. By the time he comes home again, I’ll be an old
man with grandchildren.
Funny enough, seventeen years after his beatdown, I last saw him in the
studio with Ghostface Killah when he was making Ironman. Ghost has always
liked troublemakers because he’s a troublemaker himself. He’s just not happy
unless he’s stirring things up, so he and C Allah fit together like two
motherfukkin’ peas in a pod.
But I left them crazy street dudes alone for the most part, mainly because
they were too hardheaded about most things, and I couldn’t keep getting
involved in that drama to help keep things cool.
LevelUp
𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐻𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑
The very first dread I worked with, Dusty, had his gate at 55 Bowen. “Yo,
red mon [because I was so yellow]! Yo, me wan’ see if you wan’ work in the
gate.” When they said “work in the gate,” that meant working in the drug spot.
Simply put, a drug spot was an illegal store that sold drugs. It could be set up
anywhere on the street; in an alley, on a corner, or even in the lobby of a
project.
So I was like, “Okay.” I didn’t know a goddamn thing about selling drugs,
all I knew was that I had to get me some of that money they were always
flashing.
The list of reasons why not to sell drugs is endless, but I ran through it in a
few seconds and accepted the dread’s pack. Even with all these deadly factors,
I decided to hop in the drug game.
My first time in the gate, that shyt was spooky. It was a little hole in the
door, and people would shove their money through the slot and demand their
drugs. This was at the top of the crack game, so these motherfukkers were
pulling like a hundred thousand dollars in a matter of hours. There was so
much traffic coming to this fukking spot. Every few seconds there’d be a
knock at the door and some fiend asking for some shyt. The constant knocking
was making me nervous.
To make things worse, I’d already started smoking woolies, so I was extra
paranoid. Woolies are a mixture of weed with coke or crack rolled up into a
blunt or joint. Before the dreads brought blunts into America, we were all just
smoking joints. But the Jamaicans brought Fronto leaf (a dark, wrapper-grade
tobacco leaf) with them, and rolled the weed in that, and when you couldn’t
get the Fronto leaf anymore, you started cutting open Phillies. So Jamaicans
were responsible for the blunt sensation.
Anyway, I was too paranoid in the spot that night. I couldn’t relax.
Everything about the situation had me on edge. Thing is, I’ve always had a
little sixth sense, though. Dudes always used to say, “U-God can see the cops
coming over the top of the Hill,” as they were on their way to raid us. This
particular time, there was so much traffic coming through and so much money
exchanging hands that I got really nervous. I could just feel it—I had to get
the fukk up out of the spot. A part of me was trying to ignore the voice in my
head telling me to get out; the hungry hustler part of me wanted to ignore that
voice and keep right on clocking (working) out of the gate.
Soon my inner voice got the better of me, and I knew I had to go. So I shut
the spot down and locked it up. Me and my man Choice packed up the drugs
and the money and we walked outside. I barely got around the corner, and
here come the police with the battering ram, pushing me out of the way to raid
the spot. I remember one cop yelled at me to get out of the way as they
charged right past us. I watched them run right to the spot and smash in the
door I’d just come out of.
When I got back around the way, the dread I’d been working the gate for
saw me and came over to get the scoop on the raid. “Red mon! I thought you
was in the gate when the cops rushed!”
“I had to get out! shyt was just too hot, dread. I could just feel it,” I told
him. He asked me where the money was, and I gave him the mad stacks of cash
we’d clocked that day. He broke me off a little bullshyt three hundred dollars.
After me saving all that cash and work for him, and he only gave me that
little punk-ass three hundred, I was mad. This drug game was for chumps.
Almost getting arrested and shyt for that bum-ass three hundred dollars?
fukk the dope game! I thought.
*
red mon [because I was so yellow]! Yo, me wan’ see if you wan’ work in the
gate.” When they said “work in the gate,” that meant working in the drug spot.
Simply put, a drug spot was an illegal store that sold drugs. It could be set up
anywhere on the street; in an alley, on a corner, or even in the lobby of a
project.
So I was like, “Okay.” I didn’t know a goddamn thing about selling drugs,
all I knew was that I had to get me some of that money they were always
flashing.
The list of reasons why not to sell drugs is endless, but I ran through it in a
few seconds and accepted the dread’s pack. Even with all these deadly factors,
I decided to hop in the drug game.
My first time in the gate, that shyt was spooky. It was a little hole in the
door, and people would shove their money through the slot and demand their
drugs. This was at the top of the crack game, so these motherfukkers were
pulling like a hundred thousand dollars in a matter of hours. There was so
much traffic coming to this fukking spot. Every few seconds there’d be a
knock at the door and some fiend asking for some shyt. The constant knocking
was making me nervous.
To make things worse, I’d already started smoking woolies, so I was extra
paranoid. Woolies are a mixture of weed with coke or crack rolled up into a
blunt or joint. Before the dreads brought blunts into America, we were all just
smoking joints. But the Jamaicans brought Fronto leaf (a dark, wrapper-grade
tobacco leaf) with them, and rolled the weed in that, and when you couldn’t
get the Fronto leaf anymore, you started cutting open Phillies. So Jamaicans
were responsible for the blunt sensation.
Anyway, I was too paranoid in the spot that night. I couldn’t relax.
Everything about the situation had me on edge. Thing is, I’ve always had a
little sixth sense, though. Dudes always used to say, “U-God can see the cops
coming over the top of the Hill,” as they were on their way to raid us. This
particular time, there was so much traffic coming through and so much money
exchanging hands that I got really nervous. I could just feel it—I had to get
the fukk up out of the spot. A part of me was trying to ignore the voice in my
head telling me to get out; the hungry hustler part of me wanted to ignore that
voice and keep right on clocking (working) out of the gate.
Soon my inner voice got the better of me, and I knew I had to go. So I shut
the spot down and locked it up. Me and my man Choice packed up the drugs
and the money and we walked outside. I barely got around the corner, and
here come the police with the battering ram, pushing me out of the way to raid
the spot. I remember one cop yelled at me to get out of the way as they
charged right past us. I watched them run right to the spot and smash in the
door I’d just come out of.
When I got back around the way, the dread I’d been working the gate for
saw me and came over to get the scoop on the raid. “Red mon! I thought you
was in the gate when the cops rushed!”
“I had to get out! shyt was just too hot, dread. I could just feel it,” I told
him. He asked me where the money was, and I gave him the mad stacks of cash
we’d clocked that day. He broke me off a little bullshyt three hundred dollars.
After me saving all that cash and work for him, and he only gave me that
little punk-ass three hundred, I was mad. This drug game was for chumps.
Almost getting arrested and shyt for that bum-ass three hundred dollars?
fukk the dope game! I thought.
*