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One Day It'll All Make Sense, by Common, Adam Bradley
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Common has earned a reputation in the hip hop world as a conscious artist by embracing themes of love and struggle in his songs, and by sharing his own search for knowledge with his listeners. His journey toward understanding—expressed in his music and now in his roles in film and television—is rooted in his relationship with a remarkable woman, his mother, Mahalia Ann Hines.
In One Day It’ll All Make Sense, Common holds nothing back. He tells what it was like for a boy with big dreams growing up on the South Side of Chicago. He reveals how he almost quit rapping after his first album, Can I Borrow a Dollar?, sold only two thousand copies. He recounts his rise to stardom, giving a behind-the-scenes look into the recording studios, concerts, movie sets, and after-parties of a hip-hop celebrity and movie star. He reflects on his controversial invitation to perform at the White House, a story that grabbed international headlines. And he talks about the challenges of balancing fame, love, and fatherhood.
One Day It’ll All Make Sense is a gripping memoir, both provocative and funny. Common shares never-before-told stories about his encounters with everyone from Tupac to Biggie, Ice Cube to Lauryn Hill, Barack Obama to Nelson Mandela. Drawing upon his own lyrics for inspiration, he invites the reader to go behind the spotlight to see him as he really is—not just as Common but as Lonnie Rashid Lynn.
Each chapter begins with a letter from Common addressed to an important person in his life—from his daughter to his close friend and collaborator Kanye West, from his former love Erykah Badu to you, the reader. Through it all, Common emerges as a man in full. Rapper. Actor. Activist. But also father, son, and friend. Common’s story offers a living example of how, no matter what you’ve gone through, one day it’ll all make sense.
- Sales Rank: #432440 in Books
- Published on: 2011-09-13
- Released on: 2011-09-13
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.25" h x 1.50" w x 6.12" l, 1.35 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 305 pages
Review
Common distinguishes himself here as a true artist and a writer of deep talent. This book is the story of an artist in constant evolution, one who embodies the strength of the brilliant woman that raised him, the love of the Southside Chicago land that spawned him, and the raw spirit of the pro basketball player who fathered him. I’ve always heard that the people of Southside Chicago were special. I’m glad their native son Common shows us why. --James McBride Author of The Color of Water
“Common has written a magnificent memoir. It states that it is a book about his fascinating life. That is true. More importantly, his story is the story of all young people trying to grow up. His saga reminds the reader that love liberates and poverty cripples. Common writes beautifully, like the poet he is.”
–Maya Angelou
"Common is a 360-degree human being, and I don't say that about many people. He never needed to "pimp the hood" to achieve his deserved success. He is an eloquent and honorable role model and his memoir is a perfect example of his depth as a human being. In addition, reading about his childhood and upbringing in Chicago is really a trip - because we went through so many of the same experiences albeit decades apart. Chicago is still the roughest and primary "Institution of Hard Knocks," and if you can make it there, you can truly make it anywhere!” –Quincy Jones
“Raw in its honesty, profound in its insights, One Day It’ll All Make Sense establishes Common as a voice that is as compelling on the page as it is on a record. This is not simply the story of an individual artist but a crucial page the history of hip hop itself.” –Jelani Cobb, author of The Substance of Hope
“A powerful memoir that speaks to all audiences.” –Queen Latifah
"A thoughtful and beautiful book that tells us much more about Common... His mother's perspective takes this to another level." –Touré, author of Who's Afraid of Post-Blackness
About the Author
Rashid Lynn, aka, Common, a film and television actor and award-winning music artist, lives in Los Angeles. An independent publisher/author of books for children, including The Mirror and Me and I Like You but I Love Me, this is his first book for adults. Adam Bradley is the co-editor of The Anthology of Rap and the author of Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop, among other titles.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
Dear Reader:
When I was eighteen months old, my mother and I were kidnapped at gunpoint. My father held the gun.
At least that’s one side of the story. I first heard about it all from my aunt long after it happened, when I was already a grown man. I asked my mother, and she told it to me one way. I asked my father, and he told it to me another. The story I’ll tell you begins where my mother’s and my father’s tales come together and continues past them into the separate corners of my parents’ truths. Somehow in telling it, the story becomes my own. Somehow in telling it, it all starts to make sense.
My father, Lonnie Lynn, was a Chicago playground legend. They called him the Genie because he’d make the basketball disappear right before your eyes then make it reappear at the bottom of the net. At six foot eight, he had NBA size and the skills to match. He was nice around the rim and had a sweet stroke from inside eighteen feet. But he talked back to coaches. He missed practice. He developed a habit. He was out of the league before his career really began. For all his gifts, he played just one year of professional basketball, for the Denver Rockets and the Pittsburgh Pipers of the ABA.
Around the same time, his relationship with my mother was falling apart. He was getting high, keeping drugs right out in the open on the nightstand. He’d react to the slightest provocation. One time my mother locked him out of our apartment, and he shot out all the windows. When he was sober, he was a loving man, but when he was high, he was somebody else.
“I was out of basketball,” my father later told me. “I was struggling. My lowest point came in December of 1972, when you were nine months old. I weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds, less than I had coming out of high school. That’s what the drugs had done—or, rather, what I had done with the drugs. By the time I got back to Chicago, I was back near my playing weight at two hundred thirty-five pounds. I was ready for my last chance.”
His last chance came with a tryout for the Seattle SuperSonics. They knew about my dad’s past troubles, and they were concerned. They wanted to know he was a family man. Problem was, my folks were separated, heading toward divorce. So, early one morning, my father packed everything he owned into the backseat of a rented Dodge Charger and drove to Eighty-eighth and Dorchester in Chicago’s South Side, where my mother and I lived.
Here is where my parents’ stories diverge. “He took us out of the house at gunpoint, handcuffed me to the front seat, put you in the back, and started driving across the country to Seattle,” my mother says.
“You and your mother got in the front seat with me,” my father recalls, “and we started out on Interstate 90 heading west.”
I can imagine my mother seething inside—not panicked, not defeated—waiting for her moment. My father must have known this too. Part of him might even have feared her, a strange thing since he was the one at the wheel. She had this indomitable spirit; it only grew stronger when she felt her child was in danger.
What could she do? When we stopped for gas, she says he handcuffed her to the steering wheel. When she needed to use the restroom, she says he stood outside the door. The situation must have looked hopeless to her.
My mother escaped with me early one Sunday morning. She recalls my father pulling off the highway to get gas; there were no plans to stop for food, no plans to sleep. She complained of a headache and asked my father to bring her something for the pain.
He came back to the car with a bottle of pills. My mother took two like the container directed then somehow managed to put the rest in his can of Coke as he gassed up the car. When he got back in, he took a big swig of soda then threw the can out the window. It wasn’t long before he started feeling the effects.
“Did she drug me? I don’t know,” my father told me later. “All I know is that I made the decision that it was better to sleep during the day and drive at night while you were sleeping.”
We stopped at a roadside motel on the outskirts of Madison, Wisconsin. I wonder what people saw when they looked at us. A beautiful family on a cross-country trip? A doting mother holding her child? A loving husband clutching his wife close by his side? Did they see the family we were or the family we might have been?
My mother told me that my father had just enough time to handcuff her to the bed, sit me on the couch, strip off some of his clothes, and fall onto the mattress, his feet dangling off the edge. Soon he was snoring away. Once he was fast asleep, my mother says she started working her small hand against the cuff, folding her fingers in on themselves and pulling until metal scraped skin.
“Rashid,” she said in a stage whisper. “Rashid, baby, go outside and play. Mommy will be there soon.”
Something in her eyes must have told me, young as I was, that this was no time for games. I followed her instructions and slipped out the door. Her hand finally free, my mother followed after me. She made it to the lobby and told the man working there to call the police.
“Next thing I know,” my father now says, “I wake up and there are two policemen standing over my bed. One of them’s got a shotgun on me. The other’s pointing a pistol. I raised my hands up above my head and turned my eyes to the sky. I can remember seeing a teardrop of water falling down from that low, low ceiling. That’s when I cried out: ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’
“It was all over the radio, the television, the newspaper. ‘Kidnapping,’ in capital letters. But I was in jail only overnight. They released me the next morning without charges.”
Madison, Wisconsin, is one hundred sixty-three miles from the South Side of Chicago and nearly two thousand miles from Seattle. The road trip, the kidnapping, my father’s dream—whatever you call it—it was over almost as soon as it had started.
Can a story you’ve only overheard somehow still give shape to your life? Can other people’s stories also be your own? Hearing this was like discovering a lost piece of my past, like having my life told as legend. Could it have really happened? Part of me figured that when I asked my parents about it, they’d deny it. But when I asked each of them, they confirmed it—even if they told their stories in a different key.
They say trauma always accompanies birth, the beginning of new life. When I think about my parents and me driving toward my father’s dream, I think about what it means to bear the legacy of these two people who were estranged from each other before I was born but remain tied together because I was born. It speaks to me about connections, willing and not. It speaks to the fact that when you try to tell your own story, you can’t help but tell someone else’s along the way. This is my life, my story, but it’s their story too.
I think of my mother, a young woman with a child at the time threatened by a man she still loves. Maybe that’s why she’s always loved me so hard, like she could lose me at any moment. Today she is a mother, a grandmother, my best friend.
I think about my father and how his inner pains and self-doubt sometimes expressed themselves in ways he couldn’t control. What possesses a man to aim a gun at the woman he loves and the child he helped conceive? If not the gun, then what possesses him to pursue a dream past all consequence? Today he is a thinker, a dreamer, a complex soul.
Who knows the truth of the story? My truth is this: I inherited love and trouble, joy and fear. I experienced all of these things before I could even put them into words. The story I have to tell you is one of inheritance and identity, of the values my mother passed on to me that I hope to pass on to my daughter, Omoye. The story is of making myself into the man that I want to be: an artist, a father, a child of God.
When I was given the opportunity to write this book, I had some misgivings. Had I lived enough? Would anyone want to hear my story? When I think of memorable life stories, I think of great men and women looking back over the decades. I think of Malcolm X and Assata Shakur. I think of Maya Angelou and Nelson Mandela. What story does a kid from the South Side of Chicago have to tell?
So I talked with friends. I talked with my mother, my father, my grandmother, my daughter. We laughed, we reminisced, we even shed a few tears. At a certain moment, I took in a breath, I breathed it out, and I knew that I had lived a life I wished to share. I knew that if I dedicated myself to writing about my life, it might all start to make sense.
I’ve always loved to write. It must have started with my mother. She still has a note I wrote to her when I was six or seven years old about leaving the key so she could get in the house and how I didn’t want to get a whippin’. She tells me that’s my first letter.
In school, I’d write love letters to cute girls in class. When I first started rapping, I’d write my lyrics in a composition book. As I grew older, I’d write my hopes, fears, and dreams in a journal. I still write to this day, even to people who are part of my everyday life—my mother, my daughter, my friends. I may be a talker just like my dad, but I love to express myself through letters. Maybe I write because I’ve learned to show certain parts of my heart on the page that I still struggle to capture in speech.
That’s why I’ve decided to begin each chapter of this book with a letter. In these pages, I’ve written to my mother and to my daughter and to many others—to you, to lost friends, to distant lovers, to future generations. Each letter offers a way into the stories of my life that follow. Together they tell a story of their own, of a life still very much in the making.
I have loved and lost and given and failed and fallen and prayed and believed and worked and sexed and proved and listened and traveled and healed and grown and watched and journeyed and loved again and grown some more. I’ve done all of these things and all of these things have created the man that I am today.
I also realize that my life is an expression of all those I have known and all who have known me. They are people in and out of the public eye. They are friends and fans and lovers and mentors. They are people like my mother and my grandmother and the guy I only ever knew as Duck, who was on the street but used to say that one day I’d be a star. People like Yusef and Ajile and the bellman at the House of Blues Hotel in Chicago who always had a kind word when I arrived.
My life is people like Omoye, Murray, Kanye, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, Minister Louis Farrakhan, Maya Angelou, my father, Mike Jolicoeur, Dion, Dart, Ron, Rasaan, Monard, and the memory of another South Side son named Emmett Till. All of these people are a part of me as I am a part of them. Their souls have joined with mine. In fact, sometimes when I’m writing songs I find myself looking through their eyes, expressing what I believe they might see and feel.
You’ll hear some of these other voices threading in and out of the pages that follow. Other than my own, the voice you’ll most often hear is that of my mother. It’s only right given that my mother has been—and remains—the most influential person in my life. Throughout the chapters, you’ll find her speaking in her own words directly to you through italicized text, offering perspectives on my past that complement and occasionally even contradict the view of my life as I see it.
I’m writing you now because I know I have something to say to you. I believe we can forge a connection that will help us to recognize the other in the self. I know I can enlighten. I know I can inspire. And I know that this journey is not just about what I think about myself. It’s not about how many records I’ve made or how many films I’ve done. It’s about what has happened in my life that can spark you to be better in yours. What have I said and done, what have I failed to say and failed to do, that will give you insight as you strive to reach your full potential and serve your purpose on this earth?
So I hope this letter finds you in the place where you are willing and ready to progress in your life. I hope this book not only entertains you but also helps you grow in a spirit of openness. I write to you wishing, praying, and sending the best love to you. This is my story, the story of an uncommon life.
Love,
Common
© 2011 Think Common Music
Most helpful customer reviews
104 of 106 people found the following review helpful.
Middle Aged White Guy Loved This Book.
By D. Buxman
While this review might be the kiss of death since I'm probably not the target audience, I have to say I thought this book was terrific. I didn't know much about Common, although I had heard about Fox News coverage of his visits to the White House. When I saw him on the Daily Show last night it became clear that this Common wasn't the same guy that was villified by Fox. Once I started the book, I couldn't put it down. While I probably disagree with most of his politics, the observations he had about fatherhood, responsibility and being a man were universal. I really enjoyed Common's writing style and the juxtapositioning of his Mother's comments throughout the book was priceless. Parts of the book were quite funny (like the story about Common being an ugly baby), but the overriding message of what personal responsibility and a Mother's love can accomplish was extremely inspirational. Common is a man of strong faith, while being open to other religious paths. He admits his mistakes and takes responsibility for them, while recognizing that we can all be better people and have more that should unite us than divide us.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Refreshing
By C. Ellison
In an age where gangsta rap has become the face of hip-hop culture, and hip-hop culture is marketed and sold like a commodity by four or five white men who work for Clear Channel, it is refreshing to read a version of the black male experience that acknowledges our complex history and diversity in America. This is an autobiography written by a black intellectual who does not view himself as separate and apart from the vices and virtues of his community of origin. As a documentarian and participant in the streets of Chicago, Common's life journey demonstrates that black people can be "in it," but not “of it" by our own choosing. Hip-Hop transcends the boundaries of townships and voting districts, allowing us to do the same in our own lives and live out a reality greater than the typical negative stereotypes of crime, corrections, drugs, gun violence and misogyny. As the only child of a single mother, it was truly gratifying to read about the relationship between Common and his mother, and to also read their words and thoughts intertwined and interwoven from page-to-page and chapter-to-chapter. A lot of dudes can rap, but very few have their own voice. Common demonstrates himself to be one of the few chosen, in the spirit of transformative emcees like Rakim, Krs-One, Nas, the artist formerly known as Mos Def and Black Thought. In many respects, their lives have become greater than their art, allowing them to become Hip-Hop immortals.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
It does make sense
By Gloria L. Few
I ordered the book when Common was talking about it on the twitters. (Read the book, his Mom didnt quite know what to call it either) But anyway, I immediately ordered the book from amazon.com. It arrived quickly and I was excited but apprehensive. See, I read Decoded, but didnt quite feel the excitement that everyone else felt. I love JayZ - no reasonable doubt or otherwise. And I think dream hampton is simply brilliant. But the book left a lot to be desired. Sure there were some pretty pictures, but still.......
For these reasons, I was taking my time about reading this book. Cold feet? Second thoughts? Its like I wasnt sure what I was going to learn. Everyone that knows me knows that I like to read. Reading was my first love. My first hobby and remains my true passion.
With trepidation a couple of nights ago, I cracked the spine and though I've said it before - this time for real "what a ride". Common shared all his business. His first sexual experiences. His hits and misses. His fears. His loves. His passions. His spirituality. But most importantly, dude shared his vulnerabilities. He wrote about his hurts, his pains and his less than courageous moments.
I know that many see him as a sex symbol. I know I do. I think he is F I N E!, handsome, smart, sexy, intelligent and I adore his music. I was first introduced to him for real for real with the cd One Day It'll All Make Sense when he had become known as Common rather than Common Sense. The track that attracted me to the music was Retrospect for Life with Lauryn Hill. Before that I'd heard about him, specifically his ode to Hip Hop, I Used To Love H.E.R. He writes about all of this in the book. He even shares what he was going through when he wrote the lyrics. He shares his family's dirty laundry.
If you ever listened to a Common (Sense) cd in its entirety you always hear Pops Rap. They told some of the story. Pops was telling his and his namesakes story. Lonnie Lynn and Lonnie Rashid Lynn (our Common) could not be more different yet more alike.
Reading this book will make you feel like you're talking to a real good buddy - listening to him share his life story. Some of that stuff you might not want to hear, but it's so tragically wrong and right all at the same time. When I bought the cd Electric Circus, I thought this brother must be going through something. True enough he was. He writes that he felt it to be creatively genius. Hmmmm. Then on Be, you see more influences of someone else but not necessarily the growth of an individual. Rashid, as you will feel like you have to right to call him after reading the book, saw it as growth. Possibly. I cant really say.
I know that Finding Forever was more evident of the Common Sense with whomI felt a connection.
The book is full of popular culture references and recent history. If you read it, you will find out about Common's ascent into the movie industry or acting. You will learn about his connection (loosely) to the White House and the Obamas. Naturally, there are plenty of hip hop references and those popular artists from the genre. Yet the biggest thing that made me feel like a snooper was witnessing the relationship with his parents. He and his Mom seem to be naturally friends but first parent and child. That remains evident with his Mom's notes throughout the book. Oh and his relationship with Jay Dee made me slightly uncomfortable. The emotions are raw and Jay Dee's untimely passing still feels like an open wound.
I imagine that writing the book had to be a form of catharsis or cleansing for Rashid. However I feel that his sharing it with the world was huge. You've probably already read that in the book he shares that Erykah Badu broke up with him over the phone essentially saying that she didnt want to do the relationship anymore because she was feeling someone else. Whoa! He writes that the break up hurt and it hurt bad. I could say more, but I think you might want to read it for yourself. Plus he details some of his other love relationships.
Lonnie Rashid Lynn has a soft side but he's oh so hard. There arent many but the curse words are present. I say check it out and tell me what you think.
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