I see you.

Everybody ignores you, yet somehow everybody is constantly watching you. You notice everything. You feel everything. Everything is a lot, fr. Wale was right.

If you share your frustrations, they say you’re “emoting” or acting feminine—sometimes even your own momma. If you keep everything inside, you end up like James Baldwin described: living in a constant state of rage.

The Incredible Hulk with nowhere to turn back into Bruce Banner.

So what do you do?

You freeze.

You move like you’re walking on eggshells. You escape inside yourself. You keep shit in because every room seems to have an unwritten rule: your feelings are only acceptable after you’ve translated them into something useful for everybody else.

The women around you may have networks, language, spaces and permission to reach for one another. That doesn’t mean women have it easy. They don’t. Oppression is not a pie we need to fight over.

But sometimes you still have to ask:

Who built that room for us?

A lot of Black men were raised to be the wall, the roof, the security system and the emergency contact. Then everybody looks confused when the house starts shaking.

You are the one who gets critiqued.

The one held to a certain standard.

The one who must always be accountable.

Half the time, don’t shit make sense in your universe. And your universe is real. It is specific. It is often invisible to anyone who doesn’t live there.

I’m not every Black man. But I know this universe because I live here too.

And just like a lot of you, Hip Hop has carried me through all of it.

Jay-Z and Nas have taught me more than any teacher or educational institution ever has—and I have a master’s degree.

Nipsey Hu$$le sent me down book tangents that changed how I understood ownership, discipline, and purpose.

Ab-Soul placed ideas in my head that eventually helped me find my own identity.

Hip Hop is my core.

Hip Hop is my culture.

I am a product of Hip Hop.

I am Hip Hop.

And I know I’m not alone.

I’m an ’80’s baby. Inglewood bred. I experienced Los Angeles in the ’90s. A real millennial—from rotary phones to smartphones, from cassette tapes to algorithms. We done seen some shit.

And right now, despite all the arguing, rankings, stan wars and internet courtroom proceedings, I honestly believe Hip Hop is still in a beautiful place.

We still have many of our greatest artists alive, creating and operating near the peak of their talent.

My favorite three from my generation—in no particular order—are Drake, Kendrick and Cole.

I call them The Three-Headed GOAT of their generation.

It is too early to name them on the all-time list, and I am not about to spend the next six hours arguing with a stranger whose profile picture is an anime villain.

But I need to place something into the universe.

I need a Drake, Kendrick Lamar, and J. Cole collaboration album.

I have really thought about this. Some might say too much.

Far more than any responsible adult should.

But beneath the jokes, I am serious.

Think about how much peace, language and emotional balance The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill has given us.

Think about Ready to Die.

Life After Death.

The albums that helped us grieve, laugh, drive, fight, dream, survive heartbreak and understand feelings we were never taught how to name.

Music has often been the closest thing Black men had to group therapy.

The artist says the thing we were unable to say.

The beat creates a safe room.

The album lets us know somebody else has visited this universe and made it back alive.

So imagine what it could mean to watch three of the defining MCs of a generation choose creation over competition.

Maybe the album never happens.

Fine.

This is not really about the album.

It is about what collaboration represents.

It is about the possibility that we do not have to carry everything alone.

That strength doesn’t always mean silence.

That accountability and compassion can exist in the same room.

That another Black man does not automatically have to be your opponent.

Maybe collaboration is part of the healing.

Maybe Hip Hop could save us again—not by pretending everything is okay, but by reminding us that somebody else hears the signal too.

Who am I missing from the album?

Who deserves a verse?

Who else should produce?

And what album carried you when nobody else knew you needed help?

I am The Moody Maestro.

When you see a Black man, don’t assume you see all of him.

Say what’s up.

Wish him peace.

Let’s build.

That instinct helped keep many of us alive.

It just cannot be the only way forward. We need to collaborate on building a room for us.

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