I remember vividly when Earl “DMX” Simmons came onto the mainstream music scene. My friends and I enthusiastically chanted: “…stop, drop, shut ’em down, open up shop…oh, no, that’s how Ruff Ryders roll.”
By then, I was in my second foster home and many placements inside of the foster care system would follow soon after. DMX and his fellow Ruff Ryders served as a musical backdrop in my turbulent young life. Whether I sang along to their songs in the group home van or blasted their music during my weekend chores, it gave me a temporary reprieve to the hellish reality of being raised by the system.
My most traumatic pitstop was Pleasantville Cottage School. I was subjected to emotional, medical, and physical abuse. This is where I found out that DMX lived at Children’s Village. I knew he lived in group homes and institutions, due to his poignant lyrics in Slippin’. Discovering that he lived at a residential treatment center, made me feel more connected to him. His bravery in revealing the abuse his mother subjected him to, helped me cope with being abused in foster homes and institutions.
Trauma-informed collectives agree that DMX had PTSD, which went untreated and not formally diagnosed. His abusive childhood and time spent in youth institutions left him feeling abandoned and maladaptive survival — criminality and drug use — became his ongoing lived experience.
Black youth funneled into foster care or institutional settings, age out with PTSD and little to no support. Additionally, there’s the foster care-to-prison pipeline phenomenon that’s been recognized within recent years. DMX worked hard as an underground rapper and it paid off, as he became famous. The fame and fortune left him feeling further conflicted. He felt he didn’t deserve it. DMX was still that little boy who yearned for affection and validation.
So many institutional abuse survivors looked to DMX as a beacon of hope or a source of comfort during their darkest days. His music was raw, in-your-face, and at times misogynistic. There’s overwhelming sadness surrounding DMX’s death, and also conflicting feelings from Black women due to lyrics that are retrospectively being examined as harmful.
This is where the complication lies. As an institutional abuse survivor, my shared experiences made DMX my favorite rapper, but I acknowledge the imperfections in him as a man, father, and significant other.
I was returned to my mother’s care after experiencing almost 9 years of institutional abuse. The transition was hard. I remember when DMX dropped his Grand Champ album, my mother gave money as a reward for not skipping school for a week. When the bell rang, I rushed on the 1 Train and headed to The Virgin Megastore at Union Square. I sat in Union Square Park listening to his album until the batteries in my portable CD player died.
The devastation I feel about DMX’s death is heavy. Even as an adult, I play his music and feel a surge of power. I notice when my PTSD symptoms flare up, I play my DMX playlist out of instinct. I feel like a walking contradiction that I possess a transcendent admiration for DMX, due to shared childhood experiences, and acknowledge the hurt he inflicted on others through his anger, drug abuse, and lyrics. I think about Black youth I knew at institutions. Some are incarcerated, homeless, addicted to substances, struggling, dead, or under socio-economic constraints. DMX is representative of how hard it is to escape the grip of trauma. This is why many institutional abuse survivors feel an eerie connection to his death — a “that could’ve been me” vibe.
I had the opportunity of seeing DMX’s funeral procession, heading to the Barclays Center, from my window. During his memorial and funeral, there was mention of the pain he was in and how he was unable to escape his demons. It made me realize, despite the trauma and pain he was in, he managed to relieve pain for so many people.
DMX needed rehabilitation, acknowledgment of his trauma, and a therapeutic outlet. His life and death show how Black people are criminalized for their trauma, and white people who society deems as “respectable” are praised and acknowledged for their survival.
I hold that my favorite rapper was flawed. I can’t help to think what if he entered trauma-informed therapy? What if a judge he stood in front of chose comprehensive treatment for his trauma instead of deeming his offenses drug-related or an act of criminality? I can’t obsess over what could’ve been, and have to accept what actually happened. My only hope could be that society will begin to acknowledge generational trauma in Black communities and to encourage treatment/support.
I’m going to miss my favorite rapper, DMX. He did manage to complete an album before his death. Hopefully, the world doesn’t have to wait long for its release. I’ll be just as joyous as the wayward youth I was listening to his music in Union Square Park. Rest in peace, Earl “DMX” Simmons”.
