If you don't know, now you know

One of the most memorable family vacations we took was our road trip to New York in the summer of 1989. I was only seven years old so I couldn’t quite comprehend the size of New York, but for someone who grew up in Chicago, the Big Apple just seemed infinitely more vast. Buildings never seemed to stop, and people never seemed to walk slow. It was like five Chicagos all in one.

For the first few days we did all of the typical tourist stuff, like walking through Times Square, taking pictures of the World Trade Center, and checking out the Statue of Liberty. It was great family fun. But in all of this, my dad looked terribly bored. He hated all of the long lines we had to endure, and I think he also thought we were playing it too safe by going to all of the typical tourist attractions. A lifelong traveller, my dad wanted adventure and something more exotic.

On the last day of our trip, while unfolding a huge map of New York’s burroughs, my dad sucked in a huge puff of his cigarette, then blew out. “Ah ha!” he said. “We go to Brooklyn today! I want to see projects.”

“Whats???” my mom replied, gripping my little sister close to her body. “Yous can goes by yourselfs, but don’t brings me or the kids theres! We will gets shots by the gangs!”

“No,” my dad flatly replied as his eyes reddened. “We go as one unit, or I will punch you all in noses.”

And so, to Brooklyn the Nguyen Family went.

It turned out being an unforgettable experience. I was particularly fascinated by the many ethnic neighborhoods in Brooklyn, such as Borough Park (Jewish), Bensonhurst (Italian), and Bedford-Stuyvesant (Black). Each neighborhood pulsated with so much life and ethnic character that passing through each was like passing through a different country.

Our last stop of the day was Bed-Stuy — the black neighborhood — and it was there, on that day, that I fell deeply in love with hardcore hip hop music.

In the late afternoon, there was a gathering in front of a grocery store, where a large black man was freestyle rapping into a cheap microphone. The man was — I shit you not — a young, seventeen-year-old Notorious B.I.G. But back then, before he had ever even met Sean “Puffy” Combs, he was just called B.I.G. or Biggie Smalls.

Just like his name indicated, Biggie was a big guy, even at age 17. And the way he flowed was like nothing I had ever heard before. In 1989 I was only exposed to the likes of De La Soul, Run-DMC, and the Fresh Prince, but this Biggie character was lightyears ahead of them as far as rapping. He was raw, charismatic, clever, sincere, and the patterns he put together in his flows were stupefyingly unpredictable. His words painted pictures and told stories, and yet he was still able to connect rhymes together that wouldn’t have made sense in any other context. It was like being in the 1700s and watching men tediously stuff gunpowder into their muskets while someone out of nowhere barges in with an AK-47.

Watching Biggie rap was just unreal, yet so real to me.

My dad pulled out the 20 pound video recorder he brought with him, put it on his shoulder, and shot footage of Biggie rapping. You can see me in the background with a white Bulls t-shirt, dancing to the sounds of hip hop’s Shakespeare:

When Biggie finished rapping, I jumped up and down and clapped my hands loudly. The black people all around us looked at our family funny, but we didn’t care anymore. We were having fun. My dad put out his cigarette and shook hands with a couple of the rappers, including Biggie and some tall camel-faced dude a couple blocks away from the Marcy Projects, named Sean Carter. And my mom was on the other corner of the street, grinning, trying to get a good deal on baby powder.

Happy that our family was having a blast, my dad patted me on the head and said, “Did you have fun today?”

“Yes, Papa, I did.“

“Well don’t forget the experience. The older you get, the less time you have to see world.” My dad messed up my hair and smiled for the first time in his life. “You growing up too quick, you know. Soon you will be man and take own family out on vacation. You getting so big now!”

I gushed proudly and said, “I love it when you call me big, Papa.”

A few feet away, Biggie stared at the both of us intently, then seemed to make a mental note.