An O.G. in the Hands of G.O.D.
Good writing and mutual frailties can connect us with people whose labels are different from our own. Great writing made it possible for godfather of rap Kevin Lee to make the week's biggest impression on me as this sheltered, preppy white guy comes up for air. In "Street Sense" in the issue of the New Yorker magazine dated December 18 and December 25, Kelefa Sanneh. "Lee," Sanneh describes, "is forty-six, an age that offers some advantages of its own." Lee says of his professional influence on youth culture, "With this gray beard I'm a O.G. When I say something, they listen – like, 'Oh, the O.G. must have been through it."
The Bible says as much, signifying gray hair as my crown. When I look in the mirror at the same graying whiskers Kevin Lee sees, I'm gratified for the confirmation that some of the youth culture I hope to influence in my next job might have the same reaction. If being the O.G. and owning up to it, rather than pretending to be more culturally attuned than I was at 25, can earn a hearing, there is purpose to my years, their roundabout journey, and their impact on my follicles.
But what will the young see when they look at the O.G for longer than that fleeting glance of curiosity and provisional respect? Lee has developed a lifelong habit of not allowing his previous experience and preferences to bias him against the changes that are rapid in music but not much less rapid in life. This readiness to consider life on life's terms doesn't come easily, though. In the same issue of the New Yorker, Nick Paumgarten admits in his "On and off the Avenue" piece, "As New Yorkers stumble marionettelike through the middle passage of life many keep a lookout for indications of their own increasing crankiness. They shudder at warning signs of the unfathomable new." I can identify with that, also. To concede to it in my wardrobe choices, as Paumgarten is considering, is relatively harmless. Lee, says the author, keeps enough distance to be able to hear the glee and the melancholy beneath stylistic differences. Can we? To filter the creative efforts of the young, or, worse, young people themselves, through our rubric before we decide to grant our genuine attention stifles one generation's influence on the next.
Lee's acolytes are drawn to the confidence conveyed by his strut. The author of the profile notes, however, that close inspection reveals that distinctive gait to be the result of a limp. If we would have influence on those who come behind us, are we willing to bear up under that scrutiny? Are we willing to admit to our limp and tell what we learned in the story behind it? Or, do we consider mentoring, discipleship, leadership at work, or parenthood an opportunity to impose our will while we burnish our public, if superficial, impression?
The O.G's of the world can learn from an O.O.G.G. on another world. Yoda, the Old, Old Green Guy, is back again in The Last Jedi. He and Luke discuss leadership, and Yoda tells Luke that our apprentices learn as much by our mistakes as by our triumphs. They inherit as much by this candor as by the books we would pass on. Some of the books in the culture's archive, we admit with Yoda's phrase, are not page-turners. Or, at least, they can't compare a real, daily relationship with someone willing to limp, and willing to listen.
The Bible says as much, signifying gray hair as my crown. When I look in the mirror at the same graying whiskers Kevin Lee sees, I'm gratified for the confirmation that some of the youth culture I hope to influence in my next job might have the same reaction. If being the O.G. and owning up to it, rather than pretending to be more culturally attuned than I was at 25, can earn a hearing, there is purpose to my years, their roundabout journey, and their impact on my follicles.
But what will the young see when they look at the O.G for longer than that fleeting glance of curiosity and provisional respect? Lee has developed a lifelong habit of not allowing his previous experience and preferences to bias him against the changes that are rapid in music but not much less rapid in life. This readiness to consider life on life's terms doesn't come easily, though. In the same issue of the New Yorker, Nick Paumgarten admits in his "On and off the Avenue" piece, "As New Yorkers stumble marionettelike through the middle passage of life many keep a lookout for indications of their own increasing crankiness. They shudder at warning signs of the unfathomable new." I can identify with that, also. To concede to it in my wardrobe choices, as Paumgarten is considering, is relatively harmless. Lee, says the author, keeps enough distance to be able to hear the glee and the melancholy beneath stylistic differences. Can we? To filter the creative efforts of the young, or, worse, young people themselves, through our rubric before we decide to grant our genuine attention stifles one generation's influence on the next.
Lee's acolytes are drawn to the confidence conveyed by his strut. The author of the profile notes, however, that close inspection reveals that distinctive gait to be the result of a limp. If we would have influence on those who come behind us, are we willing to bear up under that scrutiny? Are we willing to admit to our limp and tell what we learned in the story behind it? Or, do we consider mentoring, discipleship, leadership at work, or parenthood an opportunity to impose our will while we burnish our public, if superficial, impression?
The O.G's of the world can learn from an O.O.G.G. on another world. Yoda, the Old, Old Green Guy, is back again in The Last Jedi. He and Luke discuss leadership, and Yoda tells Luke that our apprentices learn as much by our mistakes as by our triumphs. They inherit as much by this candor as by the books we would pass on. Some of the books in the culture's archive, we admit with Yoda's phrase, are not page-turners. Or, at least, they can't compare a real, daily relationship with someone willing to limp, and willing to listen.
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