15 years old. Brooklyn. Infatuated with gangsters and hustlers, going to the projects everyday…but coming home to a brownstone, like the fuckin’ Huxtable’s…insecure, dark skin, saw nothing like me on tv, trailblazin’, thought I could take this shit over, if just given the chance…so, young inga, young shawn, brooklyn’s bonnie and clyde, d&d studios, graffiti on the wall, finally felt like hip-hop for real. No surreal life, this was my life…still running away from the brownstones, hoping to run into the arms of a motherfucker who wouldn’t care about the darkness of my skin or the sass of my attitude. One take. 36 bars. Only chick in the crew…even niggas couldn’t spit how I do. The sun came up and I was still awake…and I didn’t even have a rap name…but that night I created a fuckin’ hip-hop classic…Ain’t No Nigga! And finally I got my name. The one and only Foxy Brown. Bad girl of rap…misunderstood. Been crucified, criticized, but still I rise…I got a beep…the record’s #1 in the streets and the godfather of rap wanted to meet me. Could it be? So holla’d at Jay-Z…no more Shawn Carter…we goin’ to see the Godfather. And that’s where the saga begins…
Fast forward the tape a number of years…I’ll fill in the details in another diary entry, or entries, because my life has been crazy! I guess this is what they call Rock and Roll. Puffy said ‘mo’ money, mo’ problems.’ And there I was. Falsely accussed. On Riker’s Island. Looking at an eight-month bid. Since Shyne got 9, hip-hop’s been on trial. Hip-Hop police were a joke on the streets, but that year long sentences were real….and nothing sweet. I fear no one but GOD. But, then I recognized that life catches up to you and catches you hard. Sitting alone in a jail cell, having to ask c.o.’s permission…just to use the bathroom and kitchen. A 5min phone call, 3min shower, the food is atrocious, strip searched every hour. But divine intervention is power….and my faith in GOD got me thru every SECOND…every HOUR. Makes you forget the lifestyle of a “famous” rapper. 23 hours a day in a cell. 23 fuckin hours a day!!! But, it was during those 23 hours, EVERYDAY, that I looked long and hard at myself. Who I was…from young Inga to Foxy Brown to a number on a docket. I had become just a number. Not the number of records I sold, but a Riker’s Island jail number. And believe it or not, it was during those 23 hours that I finally allowed myself to feel free. I realized that freedom is not about where you are, but it’s a state of mind. And I learned to be grateful…grateful to be given another chance. And now I just got to show and prove…not to the world, but to myself.
