People don't understand that where I come from, everyone is

Lupe Fiasco, the poet of the streets and prophet of rhythm, once declared: “People don’t understand that where I come from, everyone is either a convict, been in jail, been in a gang, is a hooligan of some sorts, but those are my brothers, my family and the people that I travel with. Those are the people that I roll with.” His words speak with raw honesty of a truth too often hidden: that identity is forged not only by choice, but by environment, and that loyalty to one’s roots is both a burden and a blessing.

When Lupe speaks of convicts, gangs, and hooligans, he does not glorify violence or crime. He speaks instead of the reality of survival in places where hardship shapes men and women into what the world condemns. These are not strangers to him—they are his brothers, his kin, his companions on life’s journey. To dismiss them is to dismiss himself, for the soil that grew them also grew him. His declaration is a cry against judgment, a reminder that beneath the labels lies humanity, bound by bonds of loyalty and shared struggle.

The ancients too knew this truth. Consider the tale of Romulus and Remus, children of wolves and outcasts, who grew among rough herdsmen outside the walls of civilization. To the noble of their time, they were but hooligans of the wild. Yet from these outcasts came the founding of Rome itself. The greatness of their story was born not in polished palaces, but in loyalty to each other and the will to rise from the margins. In this, Lupe’s words echo an ancient pattern: greatness often arises from those the world despises.

His statement also reveals the power of loyalty. In many cultures, the brotherhood of the street is not a matter of luxury, but of survival. To stand apart, to betray, is to face isolation in a world already hostile. Thus, Lupe honors his people not for their deeds, but for their solidarity, their willingness to walk together through the fire of hardship. It is easy to celebrate friendship in times of prosperity; it is profound to remain loyal when the world brands your companions as irredeemable.

History bears witness in the life of Malcolm X. Born into hardship, caught in crime and prison, he emerged not by denying his past but by transforming it. He never disowned the brothers he had walked with, for he understood their struggles were his own. Instead, he sought to lift them, to show them a vision beyond the streets. Like Lupe, he recognized that family is not chosen in perfection but forged in adversity. To honor that bond is to honor truth itself.

Lupe’s words also remind us of the danger of judgment without understanding. Too often society condemns whole communities with a glance, seeing only the surface of violence or crime while ignoring the soil of poverty, neglect, and systemic injustice that gives rise to them. His protest is not against justice itself, but against blindness—the blindness that sees convicts but not human beings, gangs but not families, hooligans but not survivors. His voice, then, is both defense and invitation: to look deeper, to understand, to see the humanity within the shadows.

The lesson, therefore, is this: honor your roots, even when the world despises them. Do not cast aside those who stood with you in your earliest struggles. Loyalty does not mean blindness—it means recognizing the humanity in your companions, while seeking to lift them, and yourself, toward higher ground. Judge not too quickly, for from the soil of hardship often rise the fiercest flowers of courage and art.

So, O listener, let Lupe Fiasco’s wisdom sink deep: your family, your brothers, your people—these are the ones you roll with. They may be flawed, as all are flawed, but they are yours, and in their story lies the seed of your own. Learn from their struggle, honor their humanity, and use your gifts not to abandon them but to illuminate a path forward. For from the company of outcasts, the world has often found its prophets, its leaders, and its truth-tellers.