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  Publish Date: August 9, 2005
  Author Website: 50 Cent
  Publisher: MTV Books

50 Cent “From Pieces to Weight: Once Upon a Time in Southside Queens” Book Review
No sense in trying to front - I’ve never been a big 50 Cent fan. I guess I’m somewhat required to make that clear off jump in order to keep from losing some of my normal readership that will consider me a sellout for writing this review. It’s not that I dislike 50 Cent or his music, as I refuse to be one of those underground hip-hop head haters, but I’ve never heard one of his albums in its entirety. Rappers who gain a lot of radio airplay are often ignored by the underground, especially when they fit the bill of gangster rappers.  

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever heard any of 50 Cent’s songs outside catching one of the many radio releases in between changing CDs in my car, or while bumping my buzzed head at your local city’s so-called “hip-hop club” on ladies night. In those few moments of listening, it wasn’t difficult for me to come to what I thought was a quick understanding of and, perhaps, disregard for him and his music.

MTV-type music is not really something we normally cover here at Hip-Hop Linguistics. This website has always tried to give recognition to talented rappers who are either ignored or misunderstood by the mainstream, and 50 Cent passed that stage when he signed with Eminem and Dr. Dre, putting him on the path to radio, MTV and pop culture superstardom. This preconceived hatred for commercial rappers would surely have prevented me from ever reading 50 Cent’s autobiography, “From Pieces to Weight: Once Upon a Time in Southside Queens.” That was until my man Friday from Noise Marketing offered to send me a free copy in return for a review (Good looks again, homie).

Even after I received the book, I thought I knew exactly what to expect: 50 Cent talking about selling drugs, hurting people, gangbanging, smacking bitches, getting shot nine times, then becoming a multi-platinum rapper. And after checking out a multitude of Internet reviews of the autobiography, it became clear that most people found just that in the book. However, after reading a mere thirteen pages of Curtis James Jackson’s autobiography, I realized not only how far off I was, but how ignorant the majority of Internet hip-hop reviewers remain to be. It became clear that most of these people didn’t even read the book. Maybe they can’t read. Maybe the book’s lack of pictures and overly detailed stories about death or violence made it hard. Or maybe everybody was so convinced that they knew what Jackson’s 220-plus pages would contain that they wrote the reviews without even attempting to read the book.

Most people were vocally upset about the “lack of information” in the book. Jackson barely spoke about his supposedly-lesbian mother or the details of her murder; he didn’t speculate on Jam Master Jay’s murder or if it had anything to do with his mother’s; he vaguely spoke of his own brush with death, and only mentioned getting shot as if it were no more significant than the repetitive actions of one day; and he didn’t sit and diss Ja Rule or any of the people he currently has beef with, instead opting to keep that within the battle raps.

Instead, Jackson spoke of the events of his life from a humble and understanding perspective, almost spending more time reflecting on what he learned from his struggles than on the struggles themselves. He demonstrates outstanding patterns of thought and knowledge, touching on topics ranging from death, prejudice and personal philosophy to education, history, and the business and economics of our country’s drug policies. And all from the perspective and voice of someone who came from the streets. Many people can sit and tell a story about growing up gangster, but not too many of them could it in such an intellectual, enlightening and inspiring way. Curtis James Jackson has earned my respect, not as a rapper just yet, but as a human being who has the courage and ability to reflect on his experiences, and use them to learn, move forward, and become a better person.

Telling His Story
One of my favorite aspects of 50 Cent’s autobiography was that it demonstrated the thoughts of Curtis Jackson more than 50 Cent. He makes many attempts to explain to the reader not only why he chose to write an autobiography at the early age of 28, but also why he explains things in the manner he chooses.

Sometimes the only way I can understand things is to put them in a negative or street connotation. If I can make an analogy for a situation to what it would be on the street, then I can understand it real easy. Gradually, I’ll become something different. I’m going to different places, I’m seeing different things, moving in different circles - I’m becoming a broader person. My outlook on the world is changing, but it hasn’t totally changed. Change takes time. I’ve only been out of the ‘hood for a few years, so those experiences outweigh the new ones.

I feel like I have to tell my story while I can. I’m only twenty-nine years old. To a lot of people, I may be too young to reflect on life. And they may be right. But I’d be wasting my blessings and opportunities if I didn’t use the attention I’m getting right now to shed light on the experiences that have caused me to think the way I think, say the things I say, and make the kind of music I make. I want to explain my environment to those who don’t come any closer to it than the records they buy or the images they see on television. I’m looking back on my life with everything my twenty-nine years has taught me and telling the truth as I see it, while maintaining the honor of the environments that I’ve come from.

I wouldn’t have anything to write about if I didn’t use my own experiences. You’re being unfair if you tell me to come up with rhymes and not use what I came from, to put no part of me or anything that I’ve been through in the music. If I don’t write about what’s going on with me or what’s taking place in the ‘hood, I ain’t got nothing to say.

I haven’t shown my scars on television to sell records. I haven’t let journalists feel the hole in my gum because it sells records. I’ve shared my reality because these are real situations that happen where I’m from. And there are thousands of people who will never get the opportunity to go on TV and tell you what happens in places where gunshots settle arguments. When you look at how my body healed itself, I want you to see the bodies of those who never healed, the ones who didn’t make it to the emergency room on time, the ones who never bounced back.

Jackson insists throughout his autobiography that he is not trying to make money or “sell records,” but trying to “share my reality,” “reflect on life,” and “shed light on the experiences that have caused me to think the way I think.” I respect that. And he remains humble, realizing that he’s “becoming a broader person” and showing appreciation to “the ones who never bounced back.”

Views as a Kid
Another one of my favorite parts of the autobiography was Jackson’s ability to talk about his childhood without incorporating the mentality of an adult. He tells several stories of significance in his past, but manages to tell them in a way that allows the reader to understand the viewpoint he had at the time.

Uncle Harold told me that there was a man named Big Tony who lived not too far from the house who was getting it. He said that Big Tony was getting it so well that people stopped calling him Big Tony, and now just about everybody called him Godfather . I still wasn’t exactly sure what it was or how they got it, but I wanted it more than I wanted to throw parties in the backyard or play with my army men. And the more time I spent on South road, the more I figured out that getting it meant that you could stay up late on any night of the week. I knew that people who weren’t getting it had to go to bed early so they could disappear to work. When my mom came to pick me up in her new car - a black Buick Regal with a white vinyl top - I was sure that getting it was the only way to go.

Stupid shit. That’s the best way to explain what I found myself going through, getting into and doing for the first few years after my mother died . That is, until someone suggested that I be put on methylphenidate, otherwise known to hyperactive children around the world as Ritalin. The Ritalin worked, not necessarily because the medicine was effective but because it’s as potent as any drug ever administered to a child. The logic of the medical establishment to introduce a stimulant to a hyperactive system paid off: With each dose, I could feel every blood vessel in my head swell up and I would become woozy. I slowed down, looking and feeling like a dope fiend to the point where I began to slow myself down rather than take the medicine full time. It became a threat: “Slow down or I’ll give you your medication.”

In my head, the reason things were going bad for me was because my mom wasn’t around. This was my rationalization for all things, big or small . Every time I had seen my mom, something good would happen. But then I couldn’t see her anymore. And nothing seemed to go right . My grandmother picked up on what I was going through, probably before I did, because she showered me with extra extra love and seemed to give me more leeway than she had ever given any of my aunts and uncles.

Jackson reflects on how things looked down “because my mom wasn’t around,” and how his prescribed Ritalin “became a threat” used to keep him in line. My favorite passage in the entire book was the “getting it” passage listed above. He talked of people “getting it,” and how it made him think that “getting it was the only way to go.” Although we all know what “it” is, Jackson speaks from the perspective of a child, one who is consumed by the struggle for money and power that surrounds him.

Allure of Hustling
It was this struggle for money and power that created Jackson’s desire become a success, and he demonstrated this throughout the book. He gives several examples of how hustling and drug dealing were some of the only options he had due to where he grew up and the environment that surrounded him.

What I was being told back then about getting money didn’t make any sense to me. I was already having a hard time in school, but I was supposed to stay in school for another six years - without college. With college, I was looking at ten years easy. So after a decade, I’d be able to get a good job and work and get the things I wanted. But when I looked around the neighborhood, I saw people who were getting the things they wanted in six months from hustling. Hustling didn’t seem like one of the options, it seemed like the only option.

Formal schooling wasn’t necessary for me. It had lost whatever attraction it held about the time I copped my first brick from Carlos. From that, I learned the most important numbers for my day. I could break down a kilogram of cocaine into ounces, grams, or any combination of the two. That’s how I learned my fractions and metric conversion, through real-life applications.

Aunt Karen’s husband, Uncle Trevor, did little things for me, and he wasn’t even a blood relative. Trevor always had something for me every time we crossed paths . I didn’t understand it; in my eyes, Uncle Trevor was just a nice guy who made some money and shared it with people around him. Even after Trevor got locked up and was sentenced to thirteen years, I never saw him as a bad person. One time, he was so far as to get my grandmother a brand-new 190E Mercedes-Benz, because her Oldsmobile was always breaking down.

These were the only people I ever saw who were able to do anything for anyone outside of themselves - and they were all hustling drugs. All of the hustlers were generous . Sincere was the main one who looked out for me. When I was with him, I saw that everyone treated him with respect. The store owners greeted him like family, and all the hustlers looked up to him. I liked the feeling I got when I was with Sincere. There was no way you could tell me that hustling was a bad thing. These were the people I saw as I grew up. They were my role models.

Anyone who stands on the corner stands there in the entrepreneurial spirit because they really don’t want to be working for anyone. The ultimate goal is to work for yourself, but the first is to look good. They see the fly shit to wear and they splurge on that so they’ll feel better about how bad shit is in the ‘hood. The clothes not only make the man, but they help him to escape.

I knew I had made my own decisions and maybe I didn’t always make the right choice, but I wanted my child to have more options than I had. I mean, I was hustling so that I wouldn’t have to hustle anymore. I sure as hell didn’t want my kid growing up thinking that hustling was the only thing to do. I didn’t want to be one of those parents on the “do as I say, not as I do” tip. I knew too well how alluring the drug game could be. I know that one of the reasons I had fallen into it so easily was because I watched my mother do it.

Jackson tells stories about drug dealers who were his “role models” because they “were the only people I ever saw who were able to do anything for anyone outside of themselves.” He refers to hustlers as having a kind of “entrepreneurial spirit” by comparing the available choices of his community, thus showing that dealing drugs was a better opportunity where he came from than going to school or getting a good job. However, he seems now to view this perception with regret, as he “had fallen into it so easily because I watch my mother do it,” and wants his son to “have more options than I had.”

Law Enforcement
While analyzing his environment and the drug game it helped to create, Jackson made many interesting evaluations of the local law enforcement and its actions to help create this environment.

Red came up with the plan to bring in outside guns while he was serving time upstate in Elmira. Like most correctional facilities, Elmira was a place where inmates actually became better criminals.

But it was a shock-and-awe campaign without the follow-through of a proper occupation plan. It wasn’t part of a process and it wasn’t a genuine change in approach. It wouldn’t, couldn’t last because it didn’t deal with what was really going on in the community. Dealers were dealing because we needed money. The fiends needed drugs. And without jobs or viable options, that was how it was going to stay.

The rookie’s murder was front-page news all over the nation and kicked the War on Drugs into high gear. Mandatory minimum drug sentences and federal sentencing guidelines had already been established in the years before, but then came the Anti-Drug Abuse Act of 1988, which called for a federal death penalty for “drug kingpins” and ensured that convicted drug offenders would serve at least 85 percent of their jail sentences. This also led to the creation of police units like the Tactical Narcotics Team (TNT) and the Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit, which gave the police an unprecedented amount of power to deal with street hustlers.

But no jobs. Without jobs, all the crackdown did was to help create a more resourceful, resilient breed of drug dealer. If the ‘hood was cocaine, then the rookie cop’s murder was baking soda. And an angry police force was the fire that cooked up new hustlers. Hustlers like me.

Cops make me uncomfortable. It’s not a positive thing to see them. Usually, when they’re around, they’re around to take me or somebody around me to jail. The police department isn’t there to de-escalate a situation. They’re there to clean up the mess. After somebody’s killed, they want to find out who shot the dead guy. They don’t want to get information before it happens to stop it from happening. That only happens on TV.

Jackson’s ability to critique the actions of the police and show their responsibility for a part of the negativity impressed and astounded me. It’s this kind of community commentary that leads to positive change. Jackson talks about law enforcement’s “War on Drugs,” and shows how “all the crackdown did was to help create a more resourceful, resilient breed of drug dealer.”

History 
In fact, Jackson used this technique many times throughout the course of his autobiography. He made several great points by backing his thoughts up while reciting several stories of historical significance.

There was heroin, which came from morphine, which came from opium. Opium was around before Jesus. It was big in Asia, Europe, and the Middle East - they used it as medicine. Morphine hasn’t been around as long. It was made as a painkiller at the beginning of the nineteenth century by a German physician who named it after Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams. In Vietnam War movies, when a solider gets all shot up, he’ll be in some serious pain. After the guy gets the morphine, that’s it. No more pain. He goes all peaceful, right into the arms of Morpheus.

In 1863, Italians used cocaine to make a wine that even the pope loved so much that he rave about its ability to “spark the divinity of the soul,” or something like that. Twenty years later, Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology, called coke “magical” and couldn’t get enough of the stuff - he didn’t even stick to the wine. He went for the raw white - snorted it, injected it, painted it on his skin. At the time, cocaine was a wonder drug, a stimulant and painkiller that cured everything from impotency to masturbation and was used as a surgical anesthetic. Some guy started making the wine in Atlanta, but then Prohibition came around, so he took out the alcohol and renamed it Coca-Cola.

Back then, Queens, which is big enough to be America’s fifth-largest city, was a haven for relatively successful blacks. Harlem, New York City’s original Negro mecca, was deteriorating under the pressure of all the blacks who were coming up from the South and seeking opportunity in the big city. The former slaves decided to spread out from their little corner of New York, past lower Manhattan (which even then was too expensive for most people), and rested across the water, underneath the trees growing in Brooklyn. But then Brooklyn itself became too near to the madness of inner-city strife. So it was that Queens emerged as home to some pretty notable Negroes. In the earliest part of the twentieth century, there was Lewis Latimer, the inventor who expanded on the lightbulb created by his former mentor, Thomas Edison, by creating and patenting the carbon filament. Later, in the 1950s, Queens was home to jazz legends like John Birks “Dizzy” Gillespie, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, William “Count” Basie, and baseball giant Jackie Robinson.

Sincere told me that powdered cocaine was on its way out. Everyone was moving on to selling and smoking little cooked rocks; the pieces provided the quick high of freebase cocaine. Up until then, mostly white people were freebasing, burning coke in spoons or pieces of foil. They cooked it with bleach, ammonia, or some other shit that you clean the house with that stinks. But that could fry a motherfucker’s face. That’s how Richard Pryor burned himself up, man. The new cooked rocks Sincere was talking about didn’t involve dealing with flammable household cleaners or anything like that. He said that the profit margin wasn’t as much as selling straight powder and that you couldn’t get over with cutting the coke with lactose and Ajax and all that shit to stretch it out, but you could make up for it with volume because motherfuckers loved it. Users would be coming back in fifteen minutes like they ain’t just smoked. Sincere said he was selling it mostly to white people coming in from Long Island, but the black folk were starting to get in on it, too. The blacks would mix it with their weed and smoke it, and they loved the buzz. He said it started out in the Bahamas, then it spread to Miami, then it was coming from L.A., man. It was all over the place: Chicago, Detroit, San Diego, Minnesota, Boston, San Francisco . He was like a scholar, explaining that there had been so much cocaine in the Bahamas that they took to making it into freebase to get rid of it quicker. They were soaking it in kerosene and acid and mixing it with limestone.

In these examples, Jackson told his versions of the history of Queens, heroin, morphine, cocaine and crack. His ability to share this knowledge with his readers not only made the book more interesting, but also strengthened his ability to share his ideas by creating a historical or intellectual backdrop.

Social Philosophy
Curtis Jackson uses many of his reflections to share his own thoughts, feelings and philosophies with the readers. I view this as perhaps the most important feature of his autobiography, as a kind of urban social philosophy that can help the majority better understand the principles and ideals of urban culture throughout the United States. Below are excerpts from some of his views on death, people, business and change.

Death 
Anyone who’s been as close to dying as 50 Cent has to have some different views on both life and death. He seems to have come to acceptance with death, and it definitely shows in his views and opinions.

After I got shot nine times at close range and didn’t die, I started to think that I must have a purpose in life, like, I have to be here for a reason.

I don’t necessarily view death as something negative. Death gives meaning to life. Living in fear of death is living in denial. Actually, it’s not really living at all, because there is no life without death. It’s two sides of the one. You can’t just pick one side and say, “I’m just going to use the ‘heads’ side.” No. It doesn’t work like that. You have to pick up both sides because nothing is promised to anyone in this world besides death.

I don’t look at death as something to work against; it makes your time here worthwhile. It’s what makes life precious. Death provides purpose. It ensures that every situation that comes in life comes for a reason. It’s like you have somewhere to go and things to do before you die, and life is always trying to push you to that goal. It’s the things we go through that make us who we are. That’s why I wouldn’t trade my life for anything in this world - I know I have a purpose. The hard times only seemed hard when I was going through them. Now, they’re just memories. Besides, if I didn’t go through the hard times, I probably wouldn’t be able to enjoy the good times.

Jackson views death as somewhat of a necessary positive, which “provides purpose” and “makes your time here worthwhile.” While many people fear death, Jackson seems to thrive on it, racing against the end in an attempt to accomplish whatever he can while he’s here.

People 
Jackson also demonstrates interesting views on different types of people, especially those viewed with a lesser status among the majority class.

It’s a simple fact that when white people pop up in my neighborhood, they’re usually there to take us to jail. I definitely don’t have anything against white people, but in that environment, when we see them, the first thing we look to think is, “Are they police?” Once we realize they’re not the police, they’re cool with us. And probably in their environments, they see us and they look and think, “Are they up to something?” And then after they figure out that we’re not up to anything, we’re alright with them. It’s the same shit. Being racist and being realistic are two different things.

Dealers don’t break people. People break themselves. The dealers just make use of the pieces because there’s nothing else for them to take advantage of. Drug dealers aren’t predators. They’re scavengers, circling overhead like vultures waiting for the last light of life to be gone from their mark. Only then will they swoop down and feast on the remains.

In many ways, the dealers are as addicted as the fiends. We count on them for our livelihood. It’s like politicians. Most politicians don’t have any respect for the people who vote for them and they feel like they’re above their voters. But come election time, they’re at the voters’ mercy.

Truth is, there’s no such thing as a “gangsta rapper,” because no one can be a gangsta and a rapper at the same time. A rapper can have gangsta ties, he can know gangstas, but he can’t be a gangsta. He has to be an artist if he’s going to be an artist.

A gangsta will always side up with a weak party who needs them for strength. That’s because most gangstas haven’t developed their talents. Instead, they take advantage of people who have talent through fear. The fear factor allows a weak artist to hang with gangstas, to make the stories he puts on a record sound real. If someone’s whole gangsta backstory is a lie, he’s going to try to make it look like it’s real by standing next to someone who may have had those experiences. But that doesn’t mean you’re down with gangstas. That just means you’re getting extorted by gangstas.

In the jungle, combat comes with its own rituals: hissing, roaring, chest beating, marking of territory, all sorts of shit to serve as warnings. For the most part, no wild animal wants to engage in unnecessary mortal combat - it would rather scare off an opponent or escape a predator. It’s pretty much the same on the streets.

In these examples, Jackson discusses racial profiling, drug dealers, users, gangsters and gangster rappers in a way that relates them to the mentality of the streets. I found it interested that he was able to point out the difference between racism and realism based on the stereotypes of black and white Americans.

Business
Perhaps my favorite of Jackson’s thoughts were his business and economic theories based on his experiences in inner city life. It’s amazing that a person can learn so much about business through hustling.

Sometimes my aunts would throw dollar parties in the backyard, where they charged their friends one dollar to come into the backyard and party . Those parties were my earliest experiences in marketing. They were also the first time I got to see how hip-hop affected people. A lot of times, they played old soul grooves and everyone just played it real cool. But when a hip-hop song came on, the party really got jumping. The guys would all start rapping with the music, and the girls would break out into little dance routines. There would always be a few guys who were really into it, who would start pop-locking and break dancing.

There’s no brand loyalty in the drug game. It’s like a trickle-up policy: The fiends will cop from whoever’s around or whoever will give them the best deal. If you let a fiend get over with a short - like giving him a dime for nine dollars - he’ll come back to you, not because he’s loyal but because he’s looking for a bargain. If someone else lets him get over with shorts, he’s gonna forget about you before he lights his pipe. That’s what it is, demand and supply. I think it’s taught backward in school. There, it’s “supply and demand,” where companies come up with a whole bunch of shit and supply it. Then the companies fool the people into thinking that they need the shit they’re pushing, thereby creating an artificial demand. But the streets figure it correctly: The demand comes first, and whoever has the supply will profit.

Jackson makes it clear that he has been so successful as an artist and businessman because of the things he learned in the streets. I really enjoyed reading his “trickle-up” economic philosophy, which just happens to be almost exactly opposite to the Reagan-era trickle down theory accepted by most of the upper class of this country, probably because it makes them rich and keeps everyone else poor. Perhaps 50 Cent’s theory would in practice put the rich on a lower level.

Change 
Yet despite all his unique views and the reality of his negative environment, Curtis Jackson remains optimistic about his life and future. He seems to rely on the continuation of his success in order to continue to change and grow into a better person.

I really don’t care who dislikes me or why. I don’t waste energy on that mess. I got to be about mine. That might sound selfish, but it’s real. I’m not going to be that asshole that got in this position and still jumped out the window ’cause he couldn’t make the pieces fit. I don’t want to be the same way as I was out in the street.

For me, music is everything. It’s my opportunity to get away from the ‘hood, to make a better life for my son, to do everything I ever wanted to do. And I’m putting my all into it. You can’t meet your goals by accident. That’s like thinking you’re going to hit the lottery, but you’re not buying a ticket. I have to treat this like I treated the block. It’s a damn shame, but I have to internalize things in a negative way to understand them. I look at things from a street mentality because that’s what I understand.

My story has to be an inspiration to people that’s from the bottom, people that’s from the same walks of life I’m from. I’m proof that success is possible.

Japan was the first time I ever got to see music break the language barrier. There were people singing my songs in the club, word for word. But when the music stopped, I couldn’t talk to them because they spoke another language.

Jackson seems to recognize more love and unity, understanding how his music can “break the language barrier” and “be an inspiration to people that’s from the bottom.” He is now more content to let things slide, as he doesn’t “want to be the same way as I was out on the street.”

I’m actually glad that 50 Cent didn’t go into detail on many aspects of his life: The shooting, his mother, ongoing rapper beef, or any of that stuff. We hear enough of that. Every time we turn on the TV, pick up a paper, or walk out on the streets. And it’s sickening that people actually have the audacity to diss 50 Cent based on his attempts to keep this information from us.

In my opinion, regardless of what most of the other reviewers said, the autobiography of Curtis Jackson is a great success. Not only did he reflect upon his past and present with honor and dignity, but he explained his attempts to learn from his past, and in doing so, to make a better future for himself and those around him. And that is better to me than what everyone else seemed to be yearning for, some glorified recreation of the negativity of his past.