One Christmas long ago, CD players were all the rage. Santa Clause left me a stereo/CD player combo that year and I. WAS. THRILLED. But as days and weeks went by, I began to tire of my lone CD—a Garth Brooks album, I do recall. To remedy this, I waited with watchful eyes, many days a week, for my big brother Bryan to leave the house. And when he did, I fled my bedroom for his with nothing but pilfering on my little mind.

But all I could ever get my hands on was his copy of the “Gangsta’s Paradise” single. Which was fine. I listened to its 3 tracks on repeat—album version, radio edit, instrumental—until thoughts of Bryan’s impending return became too overwhelming. I’d run downstairs, ditch the stolen merch, and hightail it to my daybed.

I was the most cultured 8-year-old livin’ in sin da projects suburbia.