None of This is By Accident
On renewing my artistic purpose
In light of the recent “2016” social media trend, I’ve been thinking a lot about the stretch of time between 2015-16 where I gained a greater sense of my artistic purpose. This is the period of time spanning my senior year of college and me moving out to Colorado Springs for my first post-grad job. Kanye West was at the height of his powers, dominating music and fashion with his “won’t take no for an answer” mentality. On “Ultralight Beam,” the intro for West’s 2016 album The Life of Pablo, Chance the Rapper declares, “I met Kanye West, I’m never going to fail.” Ten years later, I don’t know if there’s a line that has aged poorer. But at the time, Chance was also at the height of his career. His 2013 mixtape Acid Rap had quickly risen the ranks of all-time greatest mixtapes, and he built on that momentum with Coloring Book in 2016. Both projects stayed in heavy rotation for me and my friends.
Beyond the music, I was fascinated by how Chance came up. Growing up in Chicago, Chance, who is only a year older than me, honed his writing and performance skills in poetry communities around the city. Along with other prominent artists like Saba, Noname, and Mick Jenkins, he found a launch pad for his creativity at Harold Washington Library’s YOUmedia program. In Chance’s words, as noted during a 2013 interview with Complex, “The majority of the dope, young artists that are in Chicago came out of that bitch.” His praise for YOUmedia continues. “You can learn music theory there, they have production software classes, you can take engineering classes, DJ classes.” But Chance adored Lyrical Loft, which was YOUmedia’s weekly open mic series created by a beloved mentor, “Brother Mike” Hawkins.
One of my favorite videos from these events is a baby-faced Chance performing “Nostalgia” from his 10 Day mixtape back in 2011 while patrons browse the library shelves behind him. Even at a young age, Chance’s performance is captivating. It’s clear why he rapped, “I’m still Mr. YOUmedia,” on Acid Rap’s “Acid Rain” a few years later. This unique resource, along with Brother Mike’s passing, inspired Chance to create his own “Open Mike” events at Harold Washington Library in honor of Hawkins. Reserved exclusively for high schoolers, these gatherings gave students an opportunity to share their art and be encouraged in their creativity just like YOUmedia did for Chance and so many others.
I first took notice of these events when I saw Chance inviting the likes of Kanye and Childish Gambino to perform for students. In a way, Chance was telling these young artists, ‘This could be you,’ while also giving them a stage to perform for their peers and idols. Unfortunately, now, I look back at these gatherings with mixed feelings. Chance organized Open Mike with Malcolm London, who has been accused of SA and other harms on multiple occasions. In 2020, Chance called out London. “I hope all of Malcolm London’s victims get their justice,” he tweeted. “At this point there are too many stories about dude, and the severity of each one is getting worse. I can’t vouch for him at all and hope all these stories get amplified.”
It breaks my heart that an abuser was so deeply involved with something as beautiful as Open Mike, and I hope no one was harmed as a result. I had no idea about these accusations against London when I first learned about Open Mike; however, I still identify with Chance’s intended goal of creating a “sense of community.” Even more, I’m moved by the act of encouraging young people’s creativity by inviting them to share their art with each other. In many ways, I adopted that mission. It’s what drew me to start Car Window Poetry upon moving to Colorado Springs soon after graduating college.
Car Window Poetry is exactly what it sounds like: you write poems and place them on people’s car windshields. Almost like a parking ticket—but the good kind, if there is such a thing. I started the project in August 2016 after attending a youth poetry slam that blew my world apart. I had never been to any kind of poetry event before. I wasn’t even actively writing poetry at the time, but that night, I stumbled into a poetry workshop where I wrote and performed my first poem. Most importantly, I got to watch as middle and high school students stood in front of a room full of strangers and shared their deepest, darkest secrets. They weren’t chastised for using their voice; they were celebrated. And they created a space where I could use mine.
Having spent a couple months in Colorado Springs a few years prior, I knew my way around the city, but I had never heard of anything like this. My gut told me there were other people in my bubble who hadn’t either. In an effort to spotlight the city’s writers, especially its poets like the ones I saw perform, I started Car Window Poetry. I hoped to host an event for these artists, but I never imagined Car Window Poetry would be on NBC Nightly News or give me the opportunity to visit schools and write with students. In a matter of a few months, Car Window Poetry went from being a local art project to people in other parts of the country—and eventually, the world—sharing poems.
Knowing I wouldn’t be in Colorado Springs for long, I hoped to leave the city better than I found it. I wanted to make my mark, but Car Window Poetry’s success felt like an invasion. The project became my whole world and eventually led to some pretty significant burnout. While I didn’t want to know a world without Car Window Poetry, I knew my heart was no longer in it. This became especially clear when I moved to Columbus, Ohio in 2018. After nearly two years of long-distance dating, I was beyond ready to live in the same city as Elizabeth. Instead of making my mark, I wanted to make a life with the woman I love. I wanted to ease into my new home and learn what made Elizabeth’s city so special.
As a result, I embraced being instead of doing. I put down roots in Columbus after getting hired by a local company. I began finding my way in the city. I made genuine friendships—some of which survived the global pandemic that was soon upon us. Relegated to the confines of my own space, I began nurturing my creativity. I assigned myself obnoxiously long lists ranking my favorite mixtapes and albums. Koku and I started a podcast. Nicolas-Tyrell encouraged me to write essays. My homies started writing essays. I joined them. Whereas Car Window Poetry was me trying to be of service to people outside myself, essay writing was a gift to me. Medium and Substack became platforms for me to share my creativity and be encouraged in my art-making.
When Kanye stood on stage at the 2015 MTV Video Music Awards and directed the crowd, “Listen to the kids, bro,” I didn’t realize it was not just an invitation to listen to those younger than me; it was a call to listen to my own inner child. The kid that would sit in his room and draw for hours or rhyme words together, hoping he could transform people’s lives like Kanye and Kid Cudi transformed him. Looking back, I’m grateful that my parents never discouraged my creativity. They helped me follow my curiosities, whether it was entering me into an art show, driving me to football tryouts, or buying me a studio microphone so I could turn my journal entries into songs. It’s this love and support that has kept me creating through all the different stages of my life; it also gave me the faith to believe that creativity could be meaningful for more than just me. Art can be generative for all of us.
During Car Window Poetry workshops, I remember sitting across from kids who didn’t think they could write a poem. Little did they know, I didn’t see myself as a poet either. But I’d ask them, “What do you like to do?” Then, we’d write about our beloveds together. It was like a beautiful sunrise seeing how they’d light up the more they wrote. With a face full of smile, they’d ask if they could write more. If they were writing more, I’m writing more, too. That’s what helped me see my Substack newsletter, Feels Like Home, as a way for us to “notice what we love in common,” in Ross Gay’s words. It’s also what has inspired me to organize communal spaces like Shut Up & Write and The Album Club.
Coming out of college, I wanted to help others. Then, I realized it’s really difficult to pour into others if I’m not also pouring into myself. Now, I take pride in holding space for all of us to reflect goodness back to each other and share in that goodness together. We all have a role to play in uplifting one another and keeping us safe. A new year is upon us. The horrors will continue; they’ll evolve; they’ll take on new shapes—and so will we. Such a time as this requires that I renew my artistic purpose. It asks that I remember where I came from and what got me here. After our last Album Club meeting, an older gentleman, who joined us for the night, approached me and said, “None of this is by accident.” He repeated himself, wanting to make sure I understood. I couldn’t be more certain of anything. I looked around the room and saw friends I’d made over the years since moving to Columbus. Even my being here is a byproduct of falling in love with Elizabeth.
I don’t know if our paths are predetermined, but I’m here for a reason. I believe all of us are. 2026 has already brought with it plenty of hell. I don’t know what else is in store, but I know we’re going to need each other to make it through and hopefully give way to a more survivable future. When we stand on the other side of all this and look at how far we’ve come, I hope we’ll see that wasn’t an accident either. The freedom. The goodness. All of us fully alive in our creativity. We made every bit of it so.
Thank you!
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