Notorious B.I.G has been gone for fifteen years. Fifteen years. When Big Poppa–a.k.a Biggie Smalls–was alive and on the airways, I can remember many a house party or night at the club with our hands raised, rapping at the top of our lungs:
Heart throb Never / Black and ugly as ever / However I stay Coogi down to the socks / Rings and watch filled with rocks / And my jam knock in your Mitsubishi / Girls pee pee when they see me / Navajos creep me in they teepee
Everyone was listening to the album with the little baby rocking a black ‘afro on it’s cover. When we were tired and sweaty and wanted a break from the monotonous techno beats, we got our Biggie Smalls on. Ready to Die was spilling out of every car window as I drove through the L.A. city streets.
Listening to Notorious B.I.G will always remind me of driving on the 10 freeway at night, my curls blowing in the wind, feeling like I could do anything, I could go anywhere, I could be anybody.
The year he was shot and killed, I was having a crisis of my own. Just about to graduate from college. Pregnant with my first child. Unmarried. Wondering if I should stay in L.A and be with my baby’s father or move back to my hometown to be near my family. My whole life was in the air like balloons let go at a birthday party. When I heard Biggie was shot, I was staying with my boyfriend, who lived just a few miles away from Petersen Automotive Museum on the Miracle Mile. We were shocked and sad.
That was fifteen years ago. Life is different now–I’m married and my little baby is now fifteen years old. I still listen to Notorious B.I.G every now and then. Usually, I listen on Pandora, late at night when the kids are asleep and I don’t have to worry about all of the profanity. Sometimes they’ll wake up to use the bathroom and they’ll hear me rapping Gimme the Loot or Unbelievable at the top of my lungs.
R.I.P Christopher George Latore Wallace (May 21, 1972 – March 9, 1997)
