The truth is uncomfortable…

So is art. And so is becoming a shell of yourself. And so is dimming your blessings to soothe the insecurity of others.

I come from a city that calls itself the City of Champions—a place that has produced some of the greatest talent in American history, while still bearing the scars of racial trauma rooted in the pogroms, riots, and open bigotry of 1917.

In search of a better opportunity, it made sense that my family would move hundreds of miles away to a tight-knit, traditional town. As a child, it felt beautiful. The quiet was a refuge. Libraries were abundant. Education was excellent. It gave me the foundation to become a scholar—and to question everything.

I became a jet mechanic and a leader of Marines because I could. I learned precision, discipline, and responsibility at a level where mistakes aren’t forgiven—where errors mean life or death, in hostile theaters across the world. We received many accolades and awards for our accomplishments. I carried that same intensity into journalism, into podcasting, into radio. Into asking questions that made people shift in their seats. I told stories honestly. I listened deeply. I did the work.

I was Black long before I learned how to be eloquent to convey my thoughts. I was Black long before I ever claimed the word artist. Back then, I was simply someone who took pride in his work. That alone makes people uncomfortable.

Then I began making visual art. Then music. Then murals—large, public, impossible to ignore. Eventually, awards followed. Not because I asked for them, but because excellence leaves a paper trail whether people like it or not.

And that was the problem.

The leadership. The gatekeepers. The latent racism masked as civic pride. The people in positions of power I once admired from afar. They didn’t hate my work because it lacked quality. They hated it because I meant it. Because I carried pride into everything I touched. Because I didn’t ask permission to be multidimensional. They hated it because it was me.

In a town built on insecurity, confidence reads as rebellion. The very kind of rebellion the town was named after. You know the kind of town where people rarely leave. One of those “That’s the way things have always been,” with enough old money to enforce it. A place where everyone knows your name, but not everyone wants to see you rise—especially if you look like me.

For a long time, I thought I was doing this for my hometown. I believed representation mattered more than reality. I thought if I showed them what was possible, they’d grow with me.

Instead, I got sick.

Not physically—spiritually.

There’s a particular nausea that comes from realizing the people you looked up to never wanted you to win, only to behave. To stay inside the box they understood. To be impressive, but not threatening. Talented, but grateful. Visible, but quiet.

That has never been who I am—and anyone who truly knows me knows it.

Eventually, I understood I was deeply in touch with my own energy—and that energy no longer belonged there.

So I left. Not dramatically. Not angrily. I simply went where my work could breathe.

And I did more.

More creating. More building. More becoming. None of it was about proving anything to the place that raised me, because by then I understood: the story was never about them. It was about learning when to stop shrinking for familiar faces.

I never carried bitterness. I carried clarity.

Some places raise you.
Some places reveal you.
And some places you must outgrow in order to survive yourself.

Remember: you are safe, protected, and loved.

Thanks for reading.

Dawud