A History of Violence: J Cole and the Message

I text him back like, "Guess a gun ain't what I'm tryna be, my n**a"

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In Ta Nehisi Coates's newest book, The Message, Coates opens up with a story from his childhood. In his younger days, he was a huge football fan, and to support this, as well as his love of reading, his mother would purchase him copies of Sports Illustrated magazine. For those not old enough to remember, the Sports Illustrated magazine was a staple of top-tier sports writing. Not only did it have a deeper breakdown of what was happening in games, but it also took time to unpack more prominent topics using sports as the scaffolding. 

10-year-old Coates couldn’t wait to read a feature article about his favorite player, Tony Dorsett. Dorsett was the star running back for the Dallas Cowboys and one of the best players in the league. At 5’8, he excelled in a sport dominated by giants, and through this feat, he captured Ta Nehisi’s attention. Unfortunately for Dorsett, another article in that issue would prove so powerful it blacked out any chance for the Cowboy’s running back to be seen through words. 

Titled, “Where am I? It Has to Be a Bad Dream.” It featured the story of Darryl Stingley, a wide receiver who was paralyzed from the waist down after getting hit on a routine play. Coates describes how this nightmare pulled him in, almost against his will, and how the reality that a sport he loved so much was inherently violent shook him. It wasn’t that he didn’t know this before, but he understood it through the eyes of a child so that violence was colored through the lens of happy endings. Before learning about Stingley’s accident, violence could be defeated through the elusiveness of Dorsett on the field and his ability to evade vicious tackles. Those fantasies were crushed with the understanding that “evil does win, sometimes- maybe most times.” And in this new reality, Coates had to figure out how he would navigate this world. 

Violence is a consistent theme in Coates's The Message. It makes sense because the topics he covers are deeply embedded with violence, whether it's the book ban happening in South Carolina, his journey to Dekar and what it means to return to a home your ancestors were stolen from, or learning what it’s like to live as a second class citizen in apartheid Israel. Violence is present throughout. But the message isn’t just about violence; he also examines the offspring of violence, nationalism, and oppression.

Coates tells us that “Israel was supposed to be a safe place for Jewish people,” and for the most part, it has been, but the desire to protect themselves from further persecution has led to their government harming others. Jewish people and the people of Israel deserve to be free and safe, but it can’t be at the cost of someone else. He aims to remind us that our oppression will not save us; only breaking the cycle will. 

What’s happening in Israel and Palestine is not an anomaly; the history of civilization is littered with acts of violence and oppression fueled by intentions that started with pure intentions. It's embedded in every part of our existence, just as Coates explores how cycles of violence fuel nationalism and oppression; these same cycles manifest in the culture of Hip-Hop, where competition can often turn destructive.

In hip-hop, countless artists rose to fame by sharing their stories of going from rags to riches through gun violence, drugs, and aggression. For many, these experiences were a means to an end, and music became a place to put that pain, tell their story, or just party to. Some do this as a cry for help, others use it as a diary, and as the genre has become more popular, a lot more did it to brag and make money. It’s not a knock on the state of music, just an acknowledgment of what’s dominating the culture today. What separates rap from other genres is the spirit of competition; no matter how big of an artist you become, you can’t be considered one of the best if you’re unwilling to engage in a battle of words against another artist. That competition, when done properly, can be healthy.

In theory, a rap battle should be about the quality of rhymes. In reality, it seems like the only way to prove your supremacy is to assassinate your opponent's character and dominate the narrative. Let’s look at some examples.

 While no one can deny that “South Bronx” and the “Bridge” are certified rap classics, much of the reason that KRS One is seen as the victor in this “dispute” with Melle Mel is that he was one of the first artists to go after someone directly on a record. To this day, Melle calls the “battle” a farce, but the shock value of KRS’s actions carried him to victory and kneecapped Melle’s career. When LL-Cool J and Cannibus battled in the late 90s, an argument could be made that second-round knockout was lyrically better than any diss track from L. Unfortunately for him, Cool J had the bigger audience, so when he called Cannabis homeless, and a “crack head” in the Ripper Strikes Back, it was enough to carry him to victory (No shade to L, he went off in that response, but I still think he lost).

While Jay and Nas’s beef played out a little differently (Hov was lambasted for Supa Ugly), Nas is considered the winner even though his best track, Ether, was primarily compiled from lies and personal attacks. The truth wasn’t relevant; what was most important was who got the best jabs in and who dominated the other. Drake and Kendrick's beef took these rules to another level. I think it’s universally understood that Kendrick Lamar out-rapped Drake during their conflict, but that’s not why most people crowned him the winner of their battle.

What stands out the most from that encounter is Kendrick's scorching diss track “Meet the Grahams,” a song where Kendrick accused Drake of being a sexual predator and wished out loud that he would “die.” He followed that up with arguably the song of the year, “Not Like Us,” where he spent 5 minutes calling Drake a sexual predator and a colonizer. 

Don’t get me wrong, I loved “Not Like Us,” but it wasn’t lost on me that one of my favorite artists, a man who has spoken up in the care of Black men, was tearing one down on wax. But Kendrick didn’t do this unprovoked. After warning Drake to “stick to the music” in his diss track, “Euphoria,” the Canadian rapper responded by releasing two songs accusing Kendrick of beating his wife and taking care of a kid that isn’t his. Their bars were sharp and ruthless, crafted to damage their opponent and whoever else might get in the way. In this case, that included Kendrick's wife, Drake’s son, and anyone else who might love them and hear one of these songs. And then there was J Cole. 

When Kendrick kicked off the beef with his verse on “Like That,” Cole was very much a part of it and dropped a response titled “7-Minute Drill,” soon after, Cole had a change of heart, backed out of the battle, and removed the song from streaming service, saying,

 “In my spirit of trying to get this music out… I moved in a way that spiritually felt bad… and when I put the music out, it disturbed my peace.”

After months of silence, Cole released a track titled “Port Antonio.” The song's first half features Cole's origin story and why he raps. It’s in the second verse where he starts to get into his thought process for backing out of the conflict, saying,

“I pulled the plug because I've seen where that was 'bout to go

They wanted blood, they wanted clicks to make they pockets grow

They see this fire in my pen and think I'm dodgin' smoke

I wouldn't have lost a battle, dawg, I woulda lost a bro

I woulda gained a foe, and all for what? Just to attain some mo'

Props from strangers that don't got a clue what I been aimin' for?…

In this verse, Cole doubles down on his belief that the battle wouldn’t have been about rap, and to win it, he would need to cross lines that would cost him valuable friendships, a line he wasn’t willing to cross. And just like when he backed out of the beef, many people in the hip-hop community were left unhappy.  Rapper-turned-podcaster Joe Budden blasted Cole for the song, saying,

 “What do you mean you are finally free? That dismisses all accountability from the part that he has played in the big three debacle.”

He compared Cole’s actions to a UFC fighter who throws a punch only to walk out of the ring immediately. Budden wasn’t alone in his sentiment, as others felt Cole was trying to apologize to Drake, who he shouts out in the song while still claiming to be the best rapper of the three. The consensus seems that to be considered one of the best, you must be willing to battle, and battles will get ugly. If you’re not willing to get in the dirt to win, you can’t be in consideration as one of the best. Budden confirms this thought process later on in his show. In this version of hip-hop, violence isn’t just necessary; it’s the standard. But what has that standard gotten us? Towards the end of Port Antonio, Cole shares a conversation between him and a friend that I think illuminates the point that everyone is missing.

My dawg texted me, I'll share the words he said to me

"If you refuse to shoot the gun, don't mean the gun ain't deadly,"

 Uh, I guess in that metaphor, hypothetically, the gun is me
I text him back like, "Guess a gun ain't what I'm tryna be, my nigga"

It could be argued that In the 90s, this standard of violence led to the untimely murders of Biggie Smalls and 2Pac Shakur; two larger-than-life artists who started as friends died as enemies, and for what? During 50 Cent’s beef with Ja’Rule and Murda Ink, it led to multiple death threats and murder attempts against 50. Young Dolph was murdered over rap beef, and more young rappers than I can count on my hand are murdered in the name of music every day. Is this really what we want our music to manifest?

I don’t think it is, and if you listen to the cries of most fans, the violence that can feel like it is dominating the music we love is unwanted. The wonderful thing about rap is that it’s a genre created by a bunch of poor kids who live in a country that sees no value in our lives and still finds beauty in it. We built a rose from concrete, and from that one flower evolved a lush forest. Rap gave us a voice, and our pens became the instruments and microphones for our experiences. But just because we created this beautiful thing through the grips of oppression doesn’t mean that it will always stay pure. If we don’t want to replicate the world's violence, we have to be willing to move differently. That means changing how we show up to each other, how we talk about ourselves, and learning to see the value in choosing not to fight. Port Antonio isn’t an over-explanation for backing out of a conflict; it’s a love letter to a genre: friendship and peace. Cole is choosing to say no to violence. We should stand with him.

Congrats, you made it to the end! This means you either are really invested in this topic, or you liked what you read. Either way, I would love to read your comments, what are you thinking?

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1. Was the comparison between Ta Nehisi’s book and rap beef a stretch?

2. Did you hear Coles's song? What did you think?

3. Can you be the best rapper without battling?

4. Do you think J Cole was wrong for putting out this song?

5. Did this post make you think about anything differently?

6. Any feedback for the writer (Eye am said writer)