An Open Letter to Kanye (Or Anyone Who Still Cares About Him)

Dude, Get Help. Do It Now!

Photo by Usman Yousaf on Unsplash

Dear Kanye, or Ye or Whatever You Call Yourself Now,

I don’t like you. I don’t like your music. It’s not my thing. My middle son does. Wait, no, correct that, he did. He did like your work. He did love your work And now he’s over you.

I’ve always thought you were an arrogant jerk. But hey, that’s me. But now, I know you are in very serious need of mental help.

I don’t say this lightly. I say this on many levels. And I don’t even say it from a place of hate.

First, I say it as a former mental health worker with a degree in Psychology. I say this as someone who watched Charlie Sheen unravel and saw the same manic shit. Except, you’ve taken it further.

Okay, just stop. I can see you waving your hands in front of your face and babbling furiously to drown me out.

Listen first. I’m not just some random woman saying stuff. I’m multi-racial. My father was a Black man. My brothers are Black men. My nephews are Black men. My sisters, aunties, grandmothers, etc. are all proud Black women.

WE were rooting for you. WE were proud to see a brother become a billionaire. WE were overjoyed. Even if we didn’t get the music. We had you.