Uniform

This story starts off with Montana. He’s born in the city of Baltimore, Maryland but raised in the suburbs with his Nigerian mother. Since a kid, he’s always had an interest in pursuing something creative, artistic. Now, if you know anything about Nigerian parents, that’s not what they want to hear. Here we have Montana, now a smaller, chubbier version of his current self, on the floor playing with action figures when he’s asked a question by his mom in a thick accent. “Eh, Monty, what do you want to be when you get older?,” she asks. With a glimmer of wonder in his eyes, he looks up and says with excitement, “I want to be a superhero! I wanna be like Spider-Man, or Batman, or Wolverine, or-.” Before he can finish, he’s promptly cut off. She puts a finger to his lips saying, “Shhhhhh” followed by “Wait, wait. Do you not want to be an ehhh doctor or lawyer like your sistahs?” Kind of set back by what she said, he hesitates as he says, “W-well, no. I want to fly around and fight bad guys.” “‘Fight bad guy-’ Ah ah! You need to fight those books!,” his mom says with a condescending tone, as she messes up his hair and walks away. This saddened him as Montana had many different instances trying to figure out just what he wanted to do. At first he wanted to be a superhero all the way up to recording artist. To Nigerian parents, saying that was like a death sentence. Fast forward, Monty and his friends are on the far end on the playground. He’s freestyling for the first time, “Rappin til I’m tired, then I’ll go take a nap/ Can’t say take a shit, so I say take a crap.” His friends then laugh and dap him up. Of course, at the time he was only in the fifth grade, so there wasn’t a lot of personal material for him to use. Of course, as he got older, things would change when he got to St. Alphonsus private school, the second out of three he had attended. He was the only black kid in the eighth grade and the third one in the entire school, so people to relate to were very limited. Of course they ask him shit like, “So do you listen to hip-hop?” Hesitantly, Monty replies “I mean I do, but why did you assu-?,” Another one chimes in, “Can I touch your hair?” Again, Monty reluctantly says, “I mean, I’d prefer if you didn’t?” Then suddenly a myriad of questions like, “So can you freestyle?” “Can I say the N Word?” “Do you know your dad?” It was just a suffocation of questions all because he was different. Montana soon found that private school wasn’t better than public. If anything, it was more or less the same. The only difference to him was uniforms, harder grading systems, stricter staff, and shoving Catholicism down your throat. One might think that was bad, but nothing compared to North Catholic High. It was freshman year. Everyone knows of that gorilla named Harambe, right? Well, some kids had a funny way of using that name. Set in the downstairs cafe, Monty is sitting with friends trying to enjoy his sixth period lunch before being cut off by insults from behind. “Hey Harambeeeee!,” one obese pimple-faced senior yelled. Monty drops his sandwich with an angry disposition. “Awww, don’t be like that,” a hideous white kid says, “turn arou-,” “WHAT?!,” Monty exclaims, as he turns around with a fiery stare. The seniors behind him just erupt in laughter, looking at him, cackling. One of them, holding up a picture of Harambe on his phone, screaming, “He looks just like him!” Things didn’t help at home. “Is this really what you wanna do with your life?,” Monty’s mom exclaims. “Do you realize that not everyone makes it in this business? It’s hard for black people to keep afloat in things like this. All of them are washed up. Look at ehh..who is that rapper? The, eh, one that helped Biggie?” “Puff Diddy?,” Monty reluctantly says. “Puff Diddy!,” his mom exclaims. “Where is he now, ah? NO where! I haven't heard his name in a long time! Is that who you are? Is this who you want to be?!” “Mom, I already told you,” Monty starts, “this is all I can see myself doing. You wanted me to find something I think that I’m good at, well, I can say with my whole heart and mind that music is something I can see myself in. And I’m already so good at it right now, so if you would just give me the opportu-,” “Why don’t you become a pharmacist?,” his mom says, now nicer. Monty replies, “I…..what?!” “I feel like you don't want to do medicine because of the challenges that lie ahead,” His mom says. “Pharmacy is the easiest practice, so it would make sense if you-,” “Were you listening to me? I. Don’t. Wanna. Do. Medicine. I don’t care if you did it, I don’t care if my sister did it. I’m going to give you the same answer.” Ignoring his mom still talking to him, he walks upstairs as she yells “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking!” Stopping, Monty says, “Sorry, I don't feel like having this conversation.” Silenced, she watched him go upstairs. Alone, Monty writes his shortcomings in a small black notebook in the form of raps. He’s always felt left out, different, and unappreciated. Since 12, he’s been inspired by the likes of Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, Childish Gambino, and too many to name. It got to the point where he grew out his hair to match Kendrick’s when he made To Pimp A Butterfly. As much as he wanted this music to work for himself, he wanted it even more for his mother. His mom, a hard-working African diabetic that’s only getting older, is one of the strongest people he knows. Despite people saying he’s rich because he lives in a white neighborhood, his mom was only upholding the house due to social security checks, occasional money from his sisters, and unemployment due to her injury on the clock. Judging from how his mom wouldn’t let him work yet, Monty didn’t see many financial opportunities. That wasn’t until one fateful day. Mac Miller was hosting a rap contest in Pittsburgh, about half an hour from where Monty stayed. It was a Battle of the Bars, where first place would get $100,000 and to tour with Mac Miller. This was the perfect opportunity to turn things around. The contest was a month away, so he had a limited time to prepare. Like Issa Rae, he rapped in the mirror to grow accustomed to freestyle. He even practiced with some friends after school. By the halfway mark in the month, he felt more than prepared. He told his mom about the competition. “No!” She replies. “NO?!,” Monty says back, stupefied. “We’re broke as shit and we find a golden ticket and you wanna say no? Did it not occur to you I can rap?” “First off, you’re not gonna talk to me any which way,” His mom says. “Secondly, I need you to be focused on your books at all times. Why do you think I won’t let you work?” Monty opens his mouth as if he’s going to retort , but instead, he says, “Okay, fine. I understand. I have a test to prepare for the week after, so maybe I could use that weekend to study with friends.” “Well, alright!,” His mom cheers in agreement. “That’s what I like to hear! I can take you there mysel-,” “Oh, that won’t be necessary, I can just Uber or something,” Monty chimes in. “I know your gas is expensive anyway and this test means a lot.” “Well, okay, if you insist,” the mom says. Come that weekend, Monty orders an Uber like he said, but immediately books it for the competition. It’s at Stage AE, so a lot of people are in attendance to watch. He headed backstage to see a line of rappers. “What’s your name?,” one of the announcers asked. “Monty,” Montana hesitantly replied. The announcer said, “Okay well, right your name on this dry magnet to put on the bracket. Also good luck, we got some heavy hitters.” Montana does so and gets ready to go out. When he’s finally called out to the stage, he sees Mac Miller, Wiz Khalifa, and Jimmy Wopo as judges for who gets to advance. At first, his nerves start to kick in, but he remembers his training, taking deep breaths. In almost the blink of an eye, he made it to the finals. This was his moment. The money was so close, he could almost taste it. All he had to do was face off with his final opponent: D-Nice. What caught him off guard was that D-Nice was one of the main kids calling him Harambe. Monty felt that it was only right to get revenge. Before the beat picks up, a coin is tossed. D-Nice goes first saying: “Bicth, I’m fresh like peppermint/I thought that shit was evident/I spit hellfire on the beat, but the bars heavensent/You getting wrecked, like ya face just got hammered/You so white, they should probably call yo ass Hannah, Montana/Speaking of Hannah, you should make me your last tape/Came up here looking ballsy, guess D-Nice gotta castrate/Couldn’t catch up to me if I was Stephen Hawking in a track race/You would still be whiter if I put on fucking black face/Last line was in bad taste, just like ya outfit/Face it Montana, you ain’t really about shit.” The crowd goes absolutely wild, a shot to Monty’s morale and a test to his rebuttal. He collected himself, analyzed what he could remember from his lines. The judges seemed fairly impressed with what was said. Everything leading up to this moment comes to Monty in a flash as he says: “Only thing that’s getting hammered is yo girl when I’m screwing her/She said my “D-nice”, good as hell, just like Lucifer/Everything I say is so profound/Change D-nice to “Denise” like you switched yo pronouns/Going back to yo girl, me and her finna go rounds/Monty a black king, you just a bitch without no crown/Niggas calling me white? Yeah whatever, that’s lame shit/Only reason I’m Harambe is because I go Apeshit/This embarrassing, I know that you don’t like it/By the time I’m done, I’m finna blow up like it’s Isis/I couldn’t give a fuck cause what you say ain’t hurt the slightest/I’m the “whitest black man” because my future shine the brightest. The audience went ballistic. Mac Miller shed a tear of respect. Monty got a standing O and felt like the money wasn’t far. The judges still had to vote amongst themselves. The crowd got quiet as Mac went to grab both hands and raise whoever won, “And the winner is….,” The tension is in the air. Monty crossed his fingers and his toes. D-Nice looked to the sky in hopes God would bless him that day. A hand is raised up followed by the shout of, “D-Nice!” The crowd is dumbfounded, set aback, with very hesitant applause and vivid disapproval. Monty looked down in defeat. To his surprise, he didn’t receive the grand prize. He got $20,000 and a studio session with Wiz and Jimmy. Not bad for “the whitest black kid.” He cracked a smile and knew that despite this not being what he wanted, it was just the beginning.