That was a G move. I can’t think of any other way to say it. If what is being reported right now holds to be true then Donald Trump is a certified gangsta. And I mean that in a very hood sense. I mean that as a superlative. I don’t mean it in the sense of him possessing political documents in his home or paying a prostitute from the wrong stash. 

Donald Trump the narcissist, the egomaniac, the bully, the blah-blah-blah. Man listen, what he did on July 13th was hard. He was grazed in the ear by a bullet from an Ar-15. Had the bullet landed four inches to the right then his brain would have been on the floor of that stage, but it didn’t. Instead it streaked past his ear and he was tackled by secret service agents for his own safety. A few short moments later they got back up on their feet and escorted him off the stage, and with blood streaming down the right side of his face, he put his fist in the air and the crowd went bonkers. A couple of seconds later he did it again and they chanted “U-S-A! U-S-A!” I felt a rush of ice water flow through my veins when I saw this, and then I stood up straight. I was with him. Me, the man that did not vote at all in 2016 and voted for Kanye West in 2020. Me, the man that hates the U-S-A chant and refused to shout it in 2001 after the twin towers fell, and on the night that Barack Obama was elected in 2008. I do not endorse politicians and I very rarely do patriotism, but yesterday I found myself doing a little bit of both. For this incident conjured up a palpable sense of nostalgia in me.

When I was in primary school my cousins and I were playing football in my aunt’s yard on 55th Avenue in East Oakland and somehow the ball kept going over the neighbor’s fence. Her neighbor was a mean drunk named Stanley. He hated kids and he hated life. And he especially hated his life when me and my cousins, my aunties, my uncles, and my grandmother would all gather at my Aunt’s house for a family dinner. He begrudgingly threw the ball back to us the first time and then the second time it went over he refused to give it back. My older cousin, seeing how distressed we were about the ball, decided to hop the fence and get it for us. Stanley didn’t like that. So when he saw my cousin jumping over his fence from his window he went into his house and got his switchblade. He walked with vindictive intention toward my cousin.

He was one foot away when he flicked open the knife, and said;

“You went on my property mutha fucka?”

My cousin got in his karate stance and quickly retorted;

“If you gone stab me then stab me.”

We all circled the commotion then my cousin repeated himself with more confidence;

“If you gone stab me then stab me!”

Stanley wasn’t ready for this. A few of my aunties screamed; “Oh my god!” Then Stanley slowly retreated towards his house. “Yeah mutha fucka.” He said as if he had actually done something, and he went back inside. My cousin was 15 years old at the time and I was about six, but for the rest of my life I will never forget the moment when I realized that my cousin was a G. He wasn’t afraid to die. That’s what’s at the core of the gangster identity and that’s what Donald Trump exhibited last night. His defiance spoke to something very primal in me. The part of me that respects the inner savage in someone else. I saw into the soul of Donald Trump and it said “You gone have to kill me, because I’m not going to cower.” That’s hard. That’s gangsta and I don’t care what anyone says. I have to respect it.