The Story, The Author
A Rapper's College is an inspiring story about a young musician (rap artist) who struggles to overcome his battle with dyslexia while making it through the challenges of his personal life and those of the rap industry. He crosses paths with a phenomenal tutor and as a result his life and lyrics are changed forever. This story exposes dyslexia and the effect it can have on one's personal life. It also combines Faye's love for hip hop and education. It is her first published work and has received great reviews. In honor of that achievement, Faye has made it the theme of this website. Click on Current Projects to view a detailed list of other projects and publications.
About the Author
Hannah Faye is an international educator, upcoming author, director and artist. She was born on January 20, 1983 to a Chicago Transit Bus Driver and homemaker. In 1990, Faye recalls writing her first story about a lion putting away his appetite to save a deer from a trap. In 1992, Faye wrote her second story and published it to her fourth grade class entitled "Billy the Kid" which was about a young boy who decided to put aside his bullying ways. In 1993, Faye won her first literary award in a school essay contest entitled "I Believe in Myself" where she remembers reciting her essay over the school intercom. As a teenager, Faye advanced in writing and began working on a story which involved a college student having an affair with a wealthy man. This later turned into the Unexpected Heir. Little did Faye know how these early writing achievements would foreshadow her success in the writing world.
In 2011, after facing a paramount of rejection, Faye went on to self-publish 14 titles in one year; three of those titles earned placement in the Top #100 on Amazon in their particular categories. One of these titles, namely A Rapper's College (which Faye later turned into a script) earned placement in the Third Round of the Golden Brad Awards. Faye was featured on the front cover of USA Today as a result of the publishing of her book, Occupy the World: From the Heart of the Protesters. The thing about it is...this is only the beginning. Faye is currently working on several projects simultaneously. You can view them all by clicking here. Follow Faye on Twitter @HannahFaye0120 today or find her on Facebook to stay updated.
"There's only one place to go from the bottom and that's to the top! Watch me rise." -Hannah Faye
About the Author
Hannah Faye is an international educator, upcoming author, director and artist. She was born on January 20, 1983 to a Chicago Transit Bus Driver and homemaker. In 1990, Faye recalls writing her first story about a lion putting away his appetite to save a deer from a trap. In 1992, Faye wrote her second story and published it to her fourth grade class entitled "Billy the Kid" which was about a young boy who decided to put aside his bullying ways. In 1993, Faye won her first literary award in a school essay contest entitled "I Believe in Myself" where she remembers reciting her essay over the school intercom. As a teenager, Faye advanced in writing and began working on a story which involved a college student having an affair with a wealthy man. This later turned into the Unexpected Heir. Little did Faye know how these early writing achievements would foreshadow her success in the writing world.
In 2011, after facing a paramount of rejection, Faye went on to self-publish 14 titles in one year; three of those titles earned placement in the Top #100 on Amazon in their particular categories. One of these titles, namely A Rapper's College (which Faye later turned into a script) earned placement in the Third Round of the Golden Brad Awards. Faye was featured on the front cover of USA Today as a result of the publishing of her book, Occupy the World: From the Heart of the Protesters. The thing about it is...this is only the beginning. Faye is currently working on several projects simultaneously. You can view them all by clicking here. Follow Faye on Twitter @HannahFaye0120 today or find her on Facebook to stay updated.
"There's only one place to go from the bottom and that's to the top! Watch me rise." -Hannah Faye
EXCERPT FROM 'A Rapper's College'
INTRODUCTION
I was born with dyslexia, a learning disability. For my entire life I was unable to recognize or understand words for seeing the letters backwards or upside down. Words appeared to escape from me right off the page. I understood nothing from reading and struggled with writing. For years, I was confused by letters that were similar in shape. I couldn’t remember the sequence of letters making it difficult for me to spell the simplest words. They thought I couldn’t see. They thought I had vision problems. But the problem went deeper than that; it was in my brain. After spending almost a decade in the rap industry, with the strugglestill having this problem, I finally broke it. I stand here today holding a college degree from a four‐year university in my hand. This is my story.
CHAPTER 1
“VICTOR‐IOUS! VICTOR‐IOUS!” I can hear the crowd shouting my name. The adrenaline starts moving through my veins. I feel my heart beating faster and faster. I pray…God give me the power and strength to perform. I hear the music come on. That’s my cue. Beast, my head guard, moves the curtains out of my way and I run through. They see me.
“VICTORIOUS! VICTORIOUS!” they scream.
They scream out my name at the top of their lungs. They helped make me, so I want to give them what they came for. I run out onto the stage like a wild animal loosed from its cage. I bust out the rhymes quick and fast…but not so fast they can’t understand what I’m saying. What's the point of that? My words are important. I want them to hear every single word I’m saying. I slow down. I make the words flow like the waves of the sea. I speed up. I slow back down. I make them roll like wheels on a car. I make them go deep. I make them go far. With their hands in the air, they rock their bodies back and forth to the beat. This is madness.
I was born to do this. When I was a boy, mama told me I was special. She told me I was going to make a difference in people’s lives. And so, when it happened…when I finally became famous…it was no surprise.
Six years old…my dad walked out on us. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was during the summer of ‘92. I was sitting on the floor watching music videos as usual. All of a sudden I heard a door slam and mama crying from the kitchen. I walked in and saw her sitting at the kitchen table, her face covered in her hands. When I went to touch her she looked up at me.
“Come here, Vick.” She held me close and squeezed me so tight. She didn’t let me go.
“Daddy’s gone, baby. He left us. He’s not comin’ back. You hear me?”
It took me two years to understand what she meant by that. Malcolm, my older brother and I stopped looking for him. Then, mama told us we had to move. We moved to what everybody called “the ghetto.” Up until that point, we’d lived on the "good" side of town and I didn’t know what the ghetto was. I would soon learn quickly it was no where I wanted to be. The more I heard people mention it, the more curious I became. I remember asking Malcolm what the ghetto was before daddy left us. I asked him how big it was.
“It’s as big as yo’ head, fool!” He said.
Little Malcolm was in his own world. He was like a pit‐bull at times. Teachers talked about him at school, saying aside from sports, he was good at nothing. They would ask me: “Aren’t you Malcolm’s little brother? Don’t you think for one minute you’re going to come in my room acting like him.” But they had no reason to be intimidated by me. I wasn’t like Lil’ Malcolm. I hadn’t been through what he’d been through. My dad didn’t abuse me like he did Malcolm. He didn’t push me around and hit on me like he did him and my mother. Once he almost did and mama intervened.
“Not this one, Malcolm!” I remember her screaming at him as she pulled me away from him.
I had spilled spaghetti all over the kitchen floor on accident. He’d cursed me out for it. Then, he went to hit me and mama snatched me up. She knew something my father didn’t realize. He had ruined Lil’ Malcolm. She wanted to make sure he didn’t ruin me too.
“That garbage ain’t mine anyway,” he said walking away in reference to me.
That's what I was to him...garbage. The truth was, I was his son. At least that’s what mama said. He just didn’t want me to be. I never understood why he didn’t want me to be his. From what I’d been told, my dad, Malcolm Mason, Sr., grew up in a very religious family. Raised in church, he was the son of a deacon and church secretary. He was good at school; and especially good at basketball. It was his thing. He'd earned awards all the way from Elementary School through High School. Yeah, the awards grossed our living room shelves. His dream was a typical boy’s dream…to be in the NBA.
He played so good he was one of the first African‐Americans to receive a scholarship to a four‐year university from his high school, recognized by all as a great athlete. Unfortunately, it all ended when mama, his girlfriend at the time, became pregnant with Lil’ Malcolm. It shattered his dreams. He often spoke of how his life went downhill from there. According to him, Lil' Malcolm was the blame for his descent. Mama said my grandparents told him he needed to marry her in order to avoid judgment from the church, but she told me:
"They just didn't want to be embarrassed."
So they got married shortly before she gave birth to Malcolm. He started working for a newspaper company. His dream of becoming a professional basketball player faded away. Then, he snapped completely. He became a heavy drinker. And with his drinking came verbal and physical abuse. If any one of his children expressed the slightest interest in sports, he was sure to take it to the extreme, trying to turn his dream into theirs. Lil’ Malcolm was his first victim. He didn’t like basketball as much as my dad did, but he had all the skills. I remember watching dad make him practice in our backyard for hours. Malcolm would be tired and sometimes even hungry. Dad would comment on Malcolm’s tiredness:
"Boy, you ain’t gon’ neva be nothin’ if you don’t pick up yo’ damn feet. Let’s go!”
Mama would come out, looking concerned.
“Malcolm…please…the boy is tired. Can’t you see? Let him come inside now. Dinner was over an hour ago.”
Mama would plead and plead with him to let Lil’ Malcolm inside for dinner, but he wouldn’t listen. All that practice paid off though. Malcolm was the best player on his school team. Then, something happened. When Malcolm got to high school, he started snapping on my father. He snapped one day while they were practicing. Shortly after that he ran away. When he came back he’d joined a gang and started getting into trouble with the law. It was too much for my parents to handle. The following year, he shot and killed a man at point‐blank range and received a sentence that would keep him in jail for the rest of his life.
“NO! Please, judge. Please…” Mama cried at the sentencing. She was pregnant with my sister, Deja, at the time. She was overcome with grief and fell down to the floor at the hearing of his sentence. My dad had to pick her up.
“Please… my boy! Please don’t take my baby away from me!”
But her tears and words were to no avail. Lil’ Malcolm was out of our lives forever. He left out of the courtroom in handcuffs, looking back…tears streaming down his face.
Soon after Deja was born was when dad finally left us. And that’s when our economic situation changed. We had to move to the ghetto; to the Westside of Cambridge…the rough side of town. Mama said it was only temporary, but with dad gone, it became permanent.
I spent most of my adolescent life feeling sorry for mama. She had been through so much herself. Born to a mother who gave her up for adoption at three months old, she was moved from home to home for the first ten years of her life. Now, she had been abandoned again by my father. I wanted to grow up and become somebody for her. I wanted to give her and my baby sister a better life. I wanted to give her the life I felt she so desperately deserved. And I knew I could give it to her if I became rich.
At a young age, music was introduced to my life through Lil’ Malcolm. I learned a lot about the rap artists of my time by listening and watching him. Mama and daddy didn’t want us listening to that type of music because they called it “devil music.” So, Lil’ Malcolm and I would close the door, and in secret we would listen to the radio. We pretended to be rappers and danced trying to be as quiet as possible.
Malcolm told me I could take anything and turn it into something that had rhythm and rhyme; even stuff I learned at school. I learned quickly from him and started applying his concept of rhythm and rhyme to things that were hard for me to remember. It helped a little.
When Malcolm went to jail I cried and I cried. I lost my best‐friend. I remember, after the sentencing, I ran to his room and got all his tapes; tapes that he’d stolen from people and hid from mama and daddy.
Instead of doing my school work I came home and listened to the rap artists of my time...ICE CUBE, Easy‐E, etc. I digested their every word. I listened to them over and over again…stopping, playing back, fast forwarding, rewinding, in an effort to memorize their every word.
As I grew older, mama found out I was sneaking to listen to it. She said she didn't like me listening to that “mess”, but she didn't make a big deal out of it as my father used to. By age eleven, she knew there was no stopping me. I could spit out my own rhymes. I could free style and flow like a person who was reading it from a piece of paper, only there was no paper and no words to read. When people saw me they marveled at me. They wondered how I could rap like that at such a young age. At school, I failed almost everything, but I had extraordinary ability to produce music.
I was introduced to the battles and performing on the street at a young age and it wasn’t long before I was performing at small events around town.
Throughout the years, Malcolm wrote me from jail, stating that he was proud of me and what I was doing, but that I needed to take my talent all the way to the top of the charts.
I was born with dyslexia, a learning disability. For my entire life I was unable to recognize or understand words for seeing the letters backwards or upside down. Words appeared to escape from me right off the page. I understood nothing from reading and struggled with writing. For years, I was confused by letters that were similar in shape. I couldn’t remember the sequence of letters making it difficult for me to spell the simplest words. They thought I couldn’t see. They thought I had vision problems. But the problem went deeper than that; it was in my brain. After spending almost a decade in the rap industry, with the strugglestill having this problem, I finally broke it. I stand here today holding a college degree from a four‐year university in my hand. This is my story.
CHAPTER 1
“VICTOR‐IOUS! VICTOR‐IOUS!” I can hear the crowd shouting my name. The adrenaline starts moving through my veins. I feel my heart beating faster and faster. I pray…God give me the power and strength to perform. I hear the music come on. That’s my cue. Beast, my head guard, moves the curtains out of my way and I run through. They see me.
“VICTORIOUS! VICTORIOUS!” they scream.
They scream out my name at the top of their lungs. They helped make me, so I want to give them what they came for. I run out onto the stage like a wild animal loosed from its cage. I bust out the rhymes quick and fast…but not so fast they can’t understand what I’m saying. What's the point of that? My words are important. I want them to hear every single word I’m saying. I slow down. I make the words flow like the waves of the sea. I speed up. I slow back down. I make them roll like wheels on a car. I make them go deep. I make them go far. With their hands in the air, they rock their bodies back and forth to the beat. This is madness.
I was born to do this. When I was a boy, mama told me I was special. She told me I was going to make a difference in people’s lives. And so, when it happened…when I finally became famous…it was no surprise.
Six years old…my dad walked out on us. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was during the summer of ‘92. I was sitting on the floor watching music videos as usual. All of a sudden I heard a door slam and mama crying from the kitchen. I walked in and saw her sitting at the kitchen table, her face covered in her hands. When I went to touch her she looked up at me.
“Come here, Vick.” She held me close and squeezed me so tight. She didn’t let me go.
“Daddy’s gone, baby. He left us. He’s not comin’ back. You hear me?”
It took me two years to understand what she meant by that. Malcolm, my older brother and I stopped looking for him. Then, mama told us we had to move. We moved to what everybody called “the ghetto.” Up until that point, we’d lived on the "good" side of town and I didn’t know what the ghetto was. I would soon learn quickly it was no where I wanted to be. The more I heard people mention it, the more curious I became. I remember asking Malcolm what the ghetto was before daddy left us. I asked him how big it was.
“It’s as big as yo’ head, fool!” He said.
Little Malcolm was in his own world. He was like a pit‐bull at times. Teachers talked about him at school, saying aside from sports, he was good at nothing. They would ask me: “Aren’t you Malcolm’s little brother? Don’t you think for one minute you’re going to come in my room acting like him.” But they had no reason to be intimidated by me. I wasn’t like Lil’ Malcolm. I hadn’t been through what he’d been through. My dad didn’t abuse me like he did Malcolm. He didn’t push me around and hit on me like he did him and my mother. Once he almost did and mama intervened.
“Not this one, Malcolm!” I remember her screaming at him as she pulled me away from him.
I had spilled spaghetti all over the kitchen floor on accident. He’d cursed me out for it. Then, he went to hit me and mama snatched me up. She knew something my father didn’t realize. He had ruined Lil’ Malcolm. She wanted to make sure he didn’t ruin me too.
“That garbage ain’t mine anyway,” he said walking away in reference to me.
That's what I was to him...garbage. The truth was, I was his son. At least that’s what mama said. He just didn’t want me to be. I never understood why he didn’t want me to be his. From what I’d been told, my dad, Malcolm Mason, Sr., grew up in a very religious family. Raised in church, he was the son of a deacon and church secretary. He was good at school; and especially good at basketball. It was his thing. He'd earned awards all the way from Elementary School through High School. Yeah, the awards grossed our living room shelves. His dream was a typical boy’s dream…to be in the NBA.
He played so good he was one of the first African‐Americans to receive a scholarship to a four‐year university from his high school, recognized by all as a great athlete. Unfortunately, it all ended when mama, his girlfriend at the time, became pregnant with Lil’ Malcolm. It shattered his dreams. He often spoke of how his life went downhill from there. According to him, Lil' Malcolm was the blame for his descent. Mama said my grandparents told him he needed to marry her in order to avoid judgment from the church, but she told me:
"They just didn't want to be embarrassed."
So they got married shortly before she gave birth to Malcolm. He started working for a newspaper company. His dream of becoming a professional basketball player faded away. Then, he snapped completely. He became a heavy drinker. And with his drinking came verbal and physical abuse. If any one of his children expressed the slightest interest in sports, he was sure to take it to the extreme, trying to turn his dream into theirs. Lil’ Malcolm was his first victim. He didn’t like basketball as much as my dad did, but he had all the skills. I remember watching dad make him practice in our backyard for hours. Malcolm would be tired and sometimes even hungry. Dad would comment on Malcolm’s tiredness:
"Boy, you ain’t gon’ neva be nothin’ if you don’t pick up yo’ damn feet. Let’s go!”
Mama would come out, looking concerned.
“Malcolm…please…the boy is tired. Can’t you see? Let him come inside now. Dinner was over an hour ago.”
Mama would plead and plead with him to let Lil’ Malcolm inside for dinner, but he wouldn’t listen. All that practice paid off though. Malcolm was the best player on his school team. Then, something happened. When Malcolm got to high school, he started snapping on my father. He snapped one day while they were practicing. Shortly after that he ran away. When he came back he’d joined a gang and started getting into trouble with the law. It was too much for my parents to handle. The following year, he shot and killed a man at point‐blank range and received a sentence that would keep him in jail for the rest of his life.
“NO! Please, judge. Please…” Mama cried at the sentencing. She was pregnant with my sister, Deja, at the time. She was overcome with grief and fell down to the floor at the hearing of his sentence. My dad had to pick her up.
“Please… my boy! Please don’t take my baby away from me!”
But her tears and words were to no avail. Lil’ Malcolm was out of our lives forever. He left out of the courtroom in handcuffs, looking back…tears streaming down his face.
Soon after Deja was born was when dad finally left us. And that’s when our economic situation changed. We had to move to the ghetto; to the Westside of Cambridge…the rough side of town. Mama said it was only temporary, but with dad gone, it became permanent.
I spent most of my adolescent life feeling sorry for mama. She had been through so much herself. Born to a mother who gave her up for adoption at three months old, she was moved from home to home for the first ten years of her life. Now, she had been abandoned again by my father. I wanted to grow up and become somebody for her. I wanted to give her and my baby sister a better life. I wanted to give her the life I felt she so desperately deserved. And I knew I could give it to her if I became rich.
At a young age, music was introduced to my life through Lil’ Malcolm. I learned a lot about the rap artists of my time by listening and watching him. Mama and daddy didn’t want us listening to that type of music because they called it “devil music.” So, Lil’ Malcolm and I would close the door, and in secret we would listen to the radio. We pretended to be rappers and danced trying to be as quiet as possible.
Malcolm told me I could take anything and turn it into something that had rhythm and rhyme; even stuff I learned at school. I learned quickly from him and started applying his concept of rhythm and rhyme to things that were hard for me to remember. It helped a little.
When Malcolm went to jail I cried and I cried. I lost my best‐friend. I remember, after the sentencing, I ran to his room and got all his tapes; tapes that he’d stolen from people and hid from mama and daddy.
Instead of doing my school work I came home and listened to the rap artists of my time...ICE CUBE, Easy‐E, etc. I digested their every word. I listened to them over and over again…stopping, playing back, fast forwarding, rewinding, in an effort to memorize their every word.
As I grew older, mama found out I was sneaking to listen to it. She said she didn't like me listening to that “mess”, but she didn't make a big deal out of it as my father used to. By age eleven, she knew there was no stopping me. I could spit out my own rhymes. I could free style and flow like a person who was reading it from a piece of paper, only there was no paper and no words to read. When people saw me they marveled at me. They wondered how I could rap like that at such a young age. At school, I failed almost everything, but I had extraordinary ability to produce music.
I was introduced to the battles and performing on the street at a young age and it wasn’t long before I was performing at small events around town.
Throughout the years, Malcolm wrote me from jail, stating that he was proud of me and what I was doing, but that I needed to take my talent all the way to the top of the charts.
Check me out on Myspace, Youtube and Ustream!
Find Hannah's books for sale on Amazon, 21 Blackstreet, Booklocker, Barnes & Nobles, Smashwords, Kindle and Lulu.com!!!
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