SOUTH PARK MEXICAN
The History of South Park Mexican
The year was 1992 and I was getting robbed for fifty pounds of marijuana. I didn’t even sell marijuana. I sold crack but was doing a side deal that seemed lucrative at the time.
I was on my knees while men walked around with guns, trying to decide whether they should kill me or not. They knew if they didn’t, I would be looking for them. What saved my life was that my friend’s little brother, and his friends were in the house with me. They were a neighborhood gang, ranging from thirteen to fifteen years old. The robbers figured that if they killed me, they would have to kill everyone. They didn’t want that much blood on their hands; so they left, fifty pounds heavier.
That same night, me and two friends went to the house where these “jackers” (robbers) sold drugs. The front door was open and me and my gun looked inside to see who we could have a chat with. The place was empty. Just that fast, these guys had moved.
I lost all the ten thousand dollars that I had saved up, and also had to sell my car, and other valuables, just to pay back the “big timers” that fronted me the fifty pounds. “Fronted” meant when someone gives you the drugs on credit. There’s no excuses for not paying it back. They don’t care if you got robbed, shot or jap-slapped. I guess if you got killed, that would be a decent excuse.
So there I was, in my two bedroom trailer, a twenty-two year old drop out, with sixty dollars to my name. I decided to call one of my drug-dealing buddies to see if he would sell me a win. A “win” meant enough drugs to, at least, double your money. But before I could finish dialing the number, my hand started trembling. I dropped the phone and fell to my knees:
“God, I don’t want to do this anymore. I know I can do something
better with my life, But I don’t know what it could be. Can You,
please, give me a sign? Just don’t let it be a Bobby’s Burger House application.
I got off my kitchen floor and walked into the living room. I grabbed the remote and turned on the television. I still had the prayer in my head when the picture came on. There were three big letters that covered the entire screen. It was the word “RAP”, in bright yellow, glaring at me. The word was probably there for just a second or two, but it felt like an eternity. That was my sign!
When that went off the screen, there was an excited Black man yelling, “That’s right! Can you rap?! Do you think you have what it takes?! Call this number below me, and give us your best rap right over the phone! You could be the next artist to get a major deal!” It was a commercial, done by a local record label, looking for talent. Back then rap music was blowing up so fast that there wasn’t enough artists to fill the demand. Today, there’s a rapper on every block.
I never called the number, but I took the commercial as my sign from God. I didn’t know how to rap, but I always wrote poems. Those poems would win back an upset girlfriend, make my sister teary-eyed on her birthday, and make my mother cry on Mother’s Day. Instead of buying gifts, I gave poems to the people I cared about. And all rap was – was poems, so the sign made perfect sense.
Since God had given me this sign, it was only right that I become a Christian rapper. You can imagine what all my friends thought when I gave them the news. At least my girlfriend, Georgina, (who is now my wife), supported me. I think she was just happy to see me out of the dope game.
One night I was at a neighborhood party with a few friends. The DJ was playing an instrumental and there was this guy rapping on the mic (microphone). I told my homeboys that I was going to see if they would let me rap.
“Don’t you go up there with all that God stuff,” one of my homeboys said.
“You’re crazy, man! I’m going to give these people the truth,” I said. “Nothing can top that.” I walked to the DJ booth and asked the guy who was rapping if I could be the next.
“You wanna battle me?” he asked. He was a chubby, brown-skinned kid about nineteen.
“No, it’s not a battle, I just want to rap.”
“Sounds like you wanna battle me, homeboy.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to call it, that’s fine,” I said.
“Alright,” the guy said, “you go first.”
He handed me the mic and I began to do a song I had wrote a few days before. By this time a crowd had surrounded us, but they weren’t responding very well to my rhymes. In fact, they looked bored. I didn’t understand, this was God’s Word for heaven’s sake!
After I was done, I gave the mic back to my chubby challenger and he began his rhyme. I’ll never forget his first words because the crowd went crazy:
“I’ll kidnap ya momma and throw her in the truck I can hear
the hoe screamin, ‘Bitch shut the fuck up!’”
He went on to rap about dragging my dear mother through the woods, chopping her up, and using her body parts to go fishing with. The whole time the crowd was lovin’ every word.
As the kid rapped about crabbing with my mom’s eyeball, a friend of mine began to talk to me. “Say, Los,” he said, “This nigga ain’t real. He ain’t never sold no dope, or had to pack a gun just to survive. You the real deal and out here gettin’ done up by a fraud. Look, my nigga, you can’t rap about what you don’t know. I respect Christian music, but you over here smokin’ weed and drinkin’ and shit, and tryin’ to rap about God? Come on, man, rap about what you know.”
My eyes watered because I really wanted to make it as a Christian artist. But, at the same time, there was so much I wanted to say about the life I knew. I decided to let the crowd hear what a true thug sounded like. After my opponent was finished, I reached for the mic.
“You want some more?” he asked.
“Let me try one more time,” I said.
The crowd looked on as if they sensed a change in my demeanor. Most of them knew me, or knew what I did for money. I looked around at them and then faced my challenger:
“I gotta Lac, Audi, Firebird, Impala plus a truck
You ask me what I do, you know what the fuck’s up
I sell stones that they put inside a glass flute
It turn a bitch to a stick and make her ass droop
I make money but it’s nothing that I find rewardin
I seen a man sell his little boy’s Michael Jordons
Momma say I need sleep n’ don’t eat right
I take a cat nap underneath a street light
On the block where you die or you get rich
You at the house on the couch watchin Fresh Prince
I seen a man’s brains, so many past pains
So many dead friends still a nigga can’t change
You a fraud mothafucka you ain’t spoke the truth
I pistol whip ya ass and leave ya with a broken tooth…”
It all spilled out that night and the crowd went nuts. When I was done, that guy was like the devil that went down to Georgia; he layed that golden fiddle of respect at my feet.
Later that night, I went home and prayed,
“God, forgive me but this is all I know. The people who need help the most,
won’t listen to anything else. If You’ll allow me to, I’ll use my gift
to capture the lost. Then I’ll give them Your message.”
A year later I became the fastest growing artist in America. Every city I went to opened its arms to me. My music spread like wild fire and the money came in bundles. I bought clubs, limos, and big homes. But I found out quick that money wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. I soon realized that I was much richer when I was much poorer. But people were telling me how my music helped them through life. Many said that it saved them from making bad choices and kept them on the right path. So that let me know that I must be doing something right.
I hope that you’ll enjoy what we have to offer today.
You deserve the best, and the best is who we are.
Carlos Coy / South Park Mexican
“Dope Sells Itself,” said Carlos. He was right. He did and to this day continues to remain in the hearts of fans everywhere.
US BILLBOARDS (2008)
Year Title Chart Peak Position