VSB Roundtable: How Fake Deep Was Your Fake Deep?


The majority of the people reading this were either in high school or college when Love Jones/Def Poetry Jam fever hit the Bougie Black nation, turning everyone into some awkward combination of Saul Williams and Miss Cleo.


Christina Eichelberger posed a great question to the rest of the VSB contributors: How fake deep was your fake deep? Basically, if you had a fake deep stage — like every. single. one. of. us. did somewhere between 1998 and 2005 — how deep was it? How far did you go? How small did your hats get? How long would you take to enunciate words? How many poems did you write, and how often did you perform? Who fell in love with the campus Mos Def doppelganger, only to find out he believed in Martians and had seven kids?

Here are our fake deep stories.

I'll go first, because I doubt anyone will beat my story.

My fake deep stage is the reason we're all here. It's why Panama gets free lapdances in Detroit. Why Gem Jones is a YouTube superstar. Why Tonja's cheeks are known in Belize.

It started in college, when I realized women liked dudes who wrote poems. And really liked dudes who wrote poems about sex. And really, really liked dudes who wrote poems about eating pussy. Since I already enjoyed writing, learning this was like finding out the bank was giving away free money. And blowjobs. Free money and blowjobs.

So I wrote poems, with titles like "Strawberry Klondike" and "Stuck", and I'd email them to friends on campus and publish them in campus periodicals. Once I got enough positive feedback with those, I started to branch out, writing poems that included lines like "Phat Farm Jean Suit" and "The Modern-Day Matrix Dismemberer."

And, to be honest, they actually weren't that bad. At least in comparison to some of the shit I'd see people perform. I don't even know if there's a term for that level of shitsanity. Performance fart?

Anyway, a couple years, dozens of poems, and even a few stage performances later, my cousin Sarah (I didn't know her as Huny then) caught wind of this, and offered to build a place online for me to house all my poems. She said I could even do something there I'd never heard of until this time: blog. Apparently, she was a famous blogger of some sort or something.


So, I took her up on her offer, and that lead to my first blog, dyoung.thatbitch.com…which led to my second blog d.theroyalyoungs.com…which led to meeting Panama and Liz…which, years later, led to VSB.

I double dog dare someone to come up with a better fake deep story. Because my fake deep story hasn't ended yet.


—-Damon Young

I am so happy this is happening. I offer two preludes:

1. This picture of me enveloped in 2008 post-breakup insufferable fake deep ..:::presence is a gift and i just want to be:


2. The indisputable most authentic lightskin nigga fake deep era artifact that still exists online, my husband's BlackPlanet page he can't get into to erase: http://www.blackplanet.com/silverglove


—-Christina Eichelberger

I don't know if I could beat that story but I have a poem book somewhere still. I wasn't about the deep poetry about the man or embracing my inner blackness. I didn't use black soap or burn incense in my dorm room (i did wear sandlewood oil on occasion). I wrote love poems (ballads). Tunde back then was basically like Raj (Big Bang Theory) around the ladies. What better way to express myself than thru words. I was such a cornball.


—-Tunde Akinyeke

These poem titles/phrases tho, Damon.

So… if Love Jones came out in 1997, I was in 7th grade aka what some of y'all niglets called junior high (most of CPS functioned in a K - 8 cattle-type system so I didn't know junior high was a thing til I got friends from the burbs). ANYWAY.


My fake deep poetry stage was definitely between 7th grade til about freshie year of high school. My fake deep poems were about Morgan Freeman Himself… God. I wrote sermon poems. Like, I'd go to or watch church on TV every Sunday (shout out and RIP to the Chi church superstar, Bishop Brazier, no relation to Bishop Don Magic Juan) and write a poem about whatever chapter/verse he spoke about that day. And I just KNEW I'd get my rhyming word of God out to the masses. I knew I'd be this poem prodigy and I'd be on TV with Oprah an'nem. Turns out… no.

Hell, I still have that book of poems (let's talk about how one of the books is covered with a picture of a bunch of C-notes though… on some Creflo Dollar mess. That was my way of attracting dolla dolla bills with my writing, y'all). I actually re-read them every so often. Part of me cringes like hell… the other part of me be like… BARS!



—-Tonja Stidhum

I was born with a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde "night & day" personality that never allowed me to have a deep stage. I was either a cheery, earnest, nerdy optimist who's farts did not stink or a dark, cynical old person who hated everyone who had farts of depression and passive aggressive rage. The cheery side was too corny to be deep and the cynical side was too cynical to bother with the notion since "everything sucks and nothing will ever be good so why bother?" and "Love Jones wasn't even that good of a movie, what's the big deal, hardly anyone is actually good at spoken word. You all look like Different World rejects."


And faux deep college dudes who wrote poetry (that was not even GOOD, mind you) creeped me out. Nope. Just closeted gay wannabe Alphas and Wu-Tang enthusiast Karate Thugs for me.

MIND YOU, those dudes were not better. But that's who I dated in college. The one "poetry" dude I tolerated was into a chick who had a mustache due to being on Norplant. She seemed nice. *side eye*


I also wrote poetry, like a ton of it, but I wrote poetry from age six all the way into my early 30s. (Hipster Danielle: "I was into Langston Hughes, Paul Lawrence Dunbar and Phyllis Wheately at 9 when all y'all was still trying to learn the lyrics to 'Rumpshaker.") This did not mean I was deep. (NEEEERRRRDDDDDD!!!!) It just meant I really liked writing and for a long time, liked poetry even though I hate most other people's poetry from that 90s period when everyone wrote it. Then poetry wasn't cool anymore. (People. Ruin. Everything. Leave me and my Gwendolyn Brooks alone)

Also, I don't know about all y'all, but my poetry was and still is good. Writing crap is HOW I MAKES MY LIVINS. I would hope if I'd done it since kindergarten and read "A Dream Deferred" enough it would eventually not be crap. All I do is write and write more and write more in the hope that it will not be crap. You are all writers. OWN THE FACT THAT YOU DO THINK YOUR SHITTY POETRY FROM COLLEGE WAS GOOD! Considering everyone was writing crappy poetry then, and you're a legit writer who was writing poetry, you were probably the best poet you knew on campus. Lawd knows I was the best poet on my fake deep college campus. I was the best writer everything there. King Kong ain't got shit on me. (In writing.)


—-Danielle Belton

So here's my run down:

My Fake Deep came in three waves (heh). I had my nose (re)pierced each time.
2001… BlackPlanet name "giftedsista"; read Pedagogy of the Oppressed, No Disrespect, and They Came Before Columbus; thought Bamboozled was Spike's magnum opus.
2005… wrote Common Be lyrics all over my mirrors (physically on the mirrors, no post-its); had a poem called "My G-Spot is the God in Me"; took every Black Studies class possible at San Francisco State—SFSU was the first nonHBCU in the nation to have a Black Studies department thanks to Danny Glover in the 60s so you could literally take ANYTHING with Black emphasis—English, Psychology, Journalism, Dawn of Science.
2008… "divinity rules everything around me; dream" on my MySpace profile; MySpace neosoul profile song switched every single day game so strong; it was 2008 and I was still actively updating my MySpace; read all The Secret books and was a walking "The Universe only gives us what we allow it to" tweetgram, nearly got into a car accident every time a new André 3000 verse dropped; boyfriend at the time hand-stitched his own dreadlocks (cut during pledging and still in his house) into a stocking cap to give me an André 3000 in the "Otherside of the Game" video replica Build-a-Bear that played "She Lives in my Lap" when the paw was squeezed; I wrote the color of my aura down everyday on my calendar—the colors were even more annoying than everything I've described above (Cinderella Blue, Avocado, Garrafeira Port Wine Burgundy).


ALSO, interweaved throughout all of this was my authentic "I can recite Trina lyrics like the Pledge of Allegiance" ratchetness with NO IRONY.

Fuck wit meh.


Oh I forgot, in high school (Oakland Tech, #lynchmob #beastmode) I was part of an alternative education group called TryUMF (Trying to Uplift My Folks).



I think "She Lives In My Lap" is an underrated fake-deep anthem. One because it's a great fucking song. It's almost psychedelic. I don't smoke, but I get high when I hear it. Most importantly, I'd bet it's on a higher percentage of fake-deep playlists than any other song, including "Round and Round", "Umi Says", and the audio version of Toni Morrison's Jazz.


And Christina, I want to invent a time machine just so I can go back in time, join TryUMF, become president of the group, hold a meeting in a classroom after school, and not show up while y'all waited for hours.


The TryUMF pledge

By Darrick Smith, 1999 .

In the midst of dropping GPAs

and disrespectful displays

Of ignorant melees,

Signaling the waste of each day

Comes a light out of the sky

That light is I

Brighter than the sun,

Yet missed by the eye

For this light is not for sight

'Cause its glow is far too bright

Chocolate smiles erupt with my own

'Cause they know this light represents the home

Focus, intense heat, and flames

This must be the sight

it's TryUMF time,

Shine baby, shine


iDied to the sound of a thousand poetry slam snaps at that pledge.


I didn't have a very long "fake deep" stage. I was too busy rounding out my bougie.


However. These things did happen:

(1) Classical piano training turned abhorrent songwriting, in part because Alicia Keys (briefly) made piano cool again.
(2) The movie Poetic Justice inspired the "lemme get this breathy whisper voice down for when I'm on the phone with dudes" phase, complete with box braids and the one time where I totally remixed my namesake's poem "In A Time." Hubris is so dangerous, y'all.
(3) Being from Philadelphia, I was in the neo souling-black soap using-crunchy granola-verbose-nigga homeland. And as such, went tirelessly in search of spoken word venues so that both the writer and the poser in me could be equally satisfied.


But none of this lasted too long, 'cause Whitley.

—-Maya Francis

You sure "Darrick Smith" wasn't really a teenaged Wale?

And yea, I'm rolling with Danielle now. My shit was good. Great, dammit. Sure, some of it makes me want to crawl beneath a concrete stoop, but some of it actually had some high-level-ass alliteration and assonance. I was the Western Pennsylvanian Pharoahe Monch. (In my head.)




My fake deep stage is too deep for two reasons:

A) it wasn't fake. (My poems were awesome dammit)
B) it hasn't completely ended.

Once the Comcast man leaves in an hour or so and I have internet I shall have a longer response. I feel like Christina and I would have been "soul sistas." Lmao.


There was a time in my life where "Chakras" and "aura" was a part of daily lexicon and a poetry spitting man with locs would just melt me. Some of my best friends on the planet STILL make their living traveling the country performing spoken word with names like Versus, King Wise, Legacy and Future. And they are damn good. Like great, amazing writers.

I miss my poetry writing, Erykah Badu headwrap, thousand silver bangles and ankh ring wearing days.


—-Shanae Brown



LMAO. I just about died reading this silverglove blackplanet page.

I hope mine is deleted. I had fake deep blackplanet, xanga and myspace pages. They all had rotating neo soul and incense rap playing in the background. "Mind Sex" was my fav. "African princess, tell me your interest. Wait let me guess boo, you probably like poetry…"


Lol. Ah the memories.


You all ain't fake-deep, you're fake fake-deep.

As for me, behold, the realest fake-deep person you ever met.

All this mention of Love Jones, quoting "Blues for Nina" and shit. Fuck outta here. What you all know about "Click Clack"?!


I'm so fake-deep, I liked "Love Jones" too, then I rented Slam at my local Blockbuster and my third-eye was open. "Love Jones" was Hollywood glam compared to the gritty rawness of "Slam." Darius Lovehall had a job and did poetry in his spare time. You know what Ray's job was in "Slam"? Poet.

You all think your fake-deep? "Love Jones" comes in the fake-deep starter kit. "Slam" is what you get when you officially have become fake-deep.


I'm so fake-deep, when I was in high school, I was in College Prep English courses, and asked to transfer to the intermediate English course. You know why? Because in the intermediate English Course they were reading "Things Fall Apart."

I'm so fake-deep, I wanted to go see "Sister Act 2" because Lauryn Hill was in it. I blasted "Love Supreme" by John Coltrane from my car like it was Juvenile's "Ha."


I'm so fake-deep, I had a poster of Erykah Badu on my wall because I thought her mind was sexy.

I'm so fake-deep, I wore a kufi.

Yes, a kufi.

I'm so fake-deep, I wrote this like a poem just to let you all know the fake-deep inside of me was authentic.


—-Jozen Cummings

I rocked a beige coufie on and off for a year. I'd switch between that and a Burberry bucket. I was very confused.





I had a MySpace poem called "He Wears a Magnum XL" dedicated to Barack Obama, Huey P. Newton, Teacake from Their Eyes Were Watching God, and Walter Lee from A Raisin in the Sun. Black Ice from Def Poetry messaged me about that shit. I win.



Damon is right though, once you date a dreadlocked poet and find out he's married with two kids while he's out every night at open mics getting all in every "Queen's" chakras…


I learned to stay away from poets with locs. So much ain't shitness.


My first year as a 9th grade English teacher, I constructed an entire curriculum around the first two seasons of Def Poetry. I had at-risk 14 year olds doing homework on Taylor Mali and Suheir Hammad.



This is great. Everyone was so terrible. I had an early Fake Deep Phase in 2000 when I found Tupac's A Rose That Grew From Concrete. Poetry book. Whoo. I felt like I had just found Eat, Pray, Love and had been set free, born anew and shit. I started writing poems about relationships I had never ever ever been in or witnessed, printing them and storing them in a shoebox, AFTER I sprayed them with my Dad's cologne. I had seen that in a movie or some shit. I would bring them to school on occasion, then about 15-years-old, and would whip em out during some convos on some, "Oh, he cheated on her? Wow, I wrote a poem about that." I would just happen to have multiple copies on hand. Awful.


The poems were terrible.

I also just dug through my photobucket account and found a memento of life at 19. 2003. I was running my dance company, was as gay as pink footies and purple contact lenses, and had just started to appreciate incense. I was still wearing Kelis' Wanderland the fuck out, and was newly obsessed with Donnie's The Colored Section and Alicia's The Diary of Alicia Keys. I used to send text dudes with Alicia Keys lyrics ("Call 286-4991 and IIIIIII'll be here," I remember using once) and flood my Blackplanet page with Tupac and Musiq Soulchild quotes. So between being gay as all fuck and convinced I was smarter than everyone, I was either wearing 12 outfits at once in hopes of looking like a Janet dancer ooooor taking creepy and ridiculous Blackplanet photos like the attached, and putting a vague, unrelated song lyric underneath.


I secretly wanted to be a neo soul singer. No, I cannot sing. But I was gonna be the most dancingest, most profound chewstick and essential oil nigga in history. This photo perfectly encapsulates my sensitivity and my ridiculousness. The Janet-approved half-glove. The baby locs and the ever-present loc tam. The early-2000s colored shades. I was insufferable.

This was my main Blackplanet image. I used to pull the niggas with this. (IT. WORKED.) It was the worst of times.


-—Alex Hardy

My old screen name wad "Dreaded One." I was damn proud of that double entendre.


I…I have no words.


Donnie was the broke version of Dwele. Do you all realize how broke that is, to be the broke version of Dwele?


Anyway, also, I was so fake-deep, when I finally got Internet, what did I go searching for? Slum Village's Fantastic VOLUME 1.


I used to send blank text messages to let niggas know I was just thinking about them.


And then I wrote a fake haiku about it.

to know better but not do so better quite yet (too nostalgic for haiku)

sometimes i send blank text messages
i ain’t got nothin to say
i was just thinking about you



Donnie has sold about one album in his career for each person on this email thread.



You know? All this is convo is confirming I truly was a nerd. I would have hated all of you in college, getting into poetry and soul music when it was cool when I got teased for liking the same crap (but with no Nia Long making it look cute to protect me) for 80 percent of my youth. Def Poetry Jam? Saul Williams? ALL MY FAVORITE BLACK POETS DIED A HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE I WAS BORN! And I stanned for them. I stanned for them hard even though it made me look weird and caused me to make zero out of zero friends. But if Lorenz Tate does it? Oh, oh now it's cool. Oh you want to "introduce" me to Issac Hayes' "Hot Buttered Soul" when I'd been listening to it since birth!!!!! Screw you, crappy 90s poetry guy. I'ma gonna date this thug just to spite you!


*adjusts hipster glasses* *stares at old copy of James Weldon Johnson's "God's Trombones"* *cries*


?I was a sexy Black Panther for Halloween 2006 (the 40th Panther anniversary). I had on stripper heels and an ankh charm, my fro turned into a jheri curl cause Hyphy Movement, I was confused, and I WIN.



I have words now.

As you all know, I'm engaged and shit now. But, a long-ass time ago, I was engaged before. I was young and stupid and she had big tiddies.


Anyway, how did I meet this woman? I was in a library. On a Saturday. A Saturday afternoon in the summer. She was there, studying and shit. And cute. Instead of talking to her, I found a notecard, wrote this haiku on it…

Girl in library
studies intensely, while guy
thinks about approach

…put my name and number on the back, handed it to her, and walked out.


My husband's first gift to me was ORIGINAL SHEET MUSIC for Duke Ellington's Sophisticated Lady.


Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand a carved reed whistle because Ajax bought Sula one in Sula after she tied a green ribbon in her hair cause she was dickmatized.

I will not lose this. As an individual or couple.


I printed copies of Langston's "Mother to Son" and taped them to all the doors in our house in protest after my Nintendo64 privileges were revoked, putting "Life for me ain't been no crystal stair" in like size 40 font. I knew I was on some revolutionary shit. They were maddest that I had wasted all that ink. #DeepnessFail





See, that's the thing, Christina. Your fake deep actually seems too deep to be fake. It's like the undercover agent who's so far undercover that he turns criminal. You're basically In Two Deep. (Was that a triple entendre?)


On the other hand, my fake-deepness was totally fake. I mean, I thought it was real at the time. But, I used to do poetry slams while rocking this shirt. Spoken word + D&G = Fake Deep G.O.A.T.

dandg (1)


LOL this thread is so hilarious because i have so many commonalities with many of the stories. I wasnt fake deep tho. I was more like kiddie-pool deep.


So 1997 may have been the year of Love Jones to some of yall niggas. But for me, it was the year Baduizm (and Live) dropped - and changed my life. Upon first seeing Erykah Badu's video "On & On" I felt like Erykah and I were kindred spirits. And when "Tyrone" was released? OMG I'd died and gone to conscious Black soul sista heaven, greeted with golden headwraps, Ankh necklaces, and assorted incense bundles. I was a very cynical adolescent (my mom called me and my friend Daria and Jane) and always felt like my peers were too immature and stupid to "get" me. I was too good for these knuckle heads and it was a waste of breath to try and relate to such plebeians. Who gave this niggas permission to rearrange me? I work at pleasing me cuz I can't please you niggas. YES! Badu knew me!! And I knew her! Hell, I had studied Kemet/Ancient Egypt in my spare time (like, I seriously tried to become "fluent" in writing/reading hieroglyphics). So naturally I became obsessed with buying every ankh piece of jewelry I could get my hands on (I couldn't fuck with incense, because #asthma). I was righteous, conscious, and painfully pretentious. And since I had been an award-winning poet since 5th grade (no lie) I felt it only necessary to take my poetry writing to another level - write more about the Creator, ciphers, and Shazza-type dudes (still can't believe I had a thing for light skint, light eyed dudes smh), and put that shit on the internet. My neighbor was a tech geek and built me a website in earthy tones (because #BlackPride) with images of my newest muse E. Badu and ankhs. I went by the name MzLyric for a time before switching to MizMocha on my ankh-covered BlackPlanet page. I considered myself too self-aware to "conform" but I had a BP page to spread my knowledge with others because #eachonereachone and shit. Oddly enough, the faux-deep African musk scented rabbit hole as a poetry-writing teen led me to becoming a bougie ratchet blogging adult.

—-Gem Jones

Fake deep? Like writing/performing slam poetry, calling Black men king, using the word "overstand" (Nasir taught me), smoking beedis, and/or twisting my hair into Badu-like headwraps? I went to Howard University, bitches. I was the Osirus of pretentiousness. I don't wanna call it fake depth because it felt mad authentic to me at the time. I wanna roll my eyes into the ether when I think back on it, though.


As Damon mentioned, I ran a pretty popular website back in the day called thatbitch.com (because "taking back" the word bitch was my variety of militancy back in the early 00's). One of my cousins who frequented my site and read my writing showed me some of Damon's poetry. I remember thinking our poems "felt" similar; we had the same style, so I got his email from our family mailing list and contacted him. We weren't tight back then at all, so I didn't know much about him other than he was quiet, had an egg-shaped head and was always playing basketball. But stumbling across his pretentious-ass poetry and reaching out to him did indeed lead me to building him his first website. He was my padawan. Now look at him. Editor-in-Chief'in. *points to self* Me, nigga, me. I made you.

So this is an excerpt from one of my old poems I found. This was probably in the vicinity of 2001. Prepare yourselves, for there is no greater example of Love Jones-inspired ridiculousness than this:

I don't wanna breathe without you baby
and waste breath on hollow seconds
you're in my pores and leaking out my skin, I'm stopped up
shit is madness; I got you-induced asthma
I got a you-induced virus swimming in my blood plasma
I'm tryin to do you so good you feel ashamed of yourself for letting
me do you that good
bite my lip til its raw and swollen good
and cheap like hollywood
you fuck me like fucking me to submission is the last hope for all humanity
we can fuck love sexy
then immediately after dream up names for the three seeds I wanna
carry in my belly with your last name


SEEDS! I said seeds, y'all. Jesus.

(Sidenote: I took that picture of Damon in the D&G shirt. He loved that uglass shirt)


—-sarah huny young

Yeah Damon, your fake deep was super fake.

Christina, that's an amaaaazing first gift. And that nye look is all the things.

Back when I dated fake deep dudes my fav first date was one in which a poetry/hip hop culture professor (with locs of course) who wrote a book on hip hop gave me Ferlinghetti's Poetry as Insurgent Art and Jack Kerouac's Belief and Technique for Modern Prose as mementos of our date. This is after we'd spent the whole night discussing James Baldwin, Gwendolyn Brooks and Mos def while listening to "Brown Skinned Lady."


Can't make that up. Talk about all the fake deep swooning.

We had an argument once in which he said he couldn't "exist in this negative moment." Lmao.



Nae, you so hotep.


Wait, I'm just seeing Christina's husband's BlackPlanet page. I SNORT laughed. That is GOLD and makes me enormously happy and equal parts sad that I deleted mine. "You have experienced Silverglove, and he has experienced you." yassssss. All this is missing is "Leave a message in my G-spot."


I would be remiss if I didn't mention I also went through a tarot card phase. Like I had multiple decks. Osho Zen Tarot was my fave. I think this corresponded with me dating a man who studied Dr. York. If you don't know who Dr. York is you were neverrrrr fake deep. Stop it.

And Jozen mentioned "Slam"…listen. To this day? When I finish a website? I say "I AM THAT NIGGA, I AM THAT NIGGA, I AM THAT NIGGA, I AM THAT TIMELESS NIGGA." Because Saul Williams.


And I owned this album and pretty much quoted it constantly for two years straight. Are we tusslin' now? This is a deep-off.



Aight…finally…THE CHAMP IS HERE. Which is kind of a pun considering and shit. Mostly, I'm just gon' add my fake deep because it was some high quality shit.



…(deep niggas use elipses because they are never quite finished with their thoughts)…I went through a deep phase. I went to an HBCU (Morehouse WHAT WHAT) and I think it's required of all HBCU face ass niggas to be deep at least for a spell. Shouts to my Spelman sister, Gem. While I was at Da 'House, I had a telemarketing job because thats what we did back in the 99 while were taking over into 2000. While I was working at this particular telemarketing firm, there was this queen named Amina, height 5'7", caramel complected, body like heaven working there. Stereotypical as fuck with the headwraps and requisite gap in her teeth while wearing ankh rings and Sankofa trampstamps. This was before trampstamps were even a thing. She was a head of the game.


So, there was this uber lame ass nigga named Jeffery who worked with me who'd write poetry and it sucked. Like, Superhead meets Pinky at a Vacuum convention style sucked. Well she'd read it and say it was deep. And I was dumbfoudned. I decided that if fuckboy suckboy could write deep shit that I would too. So I remember writing some Shakespearingly tragic non-sense about triangles and I'm pretty sure my actual poetry could fit into the Pythagorean Theorem. Wait…what? Exactly. It all sucked but the deep, headwrap and gap toothed chicks loved it.

Well, one day - and this is where it goes from being fake deep to being like actual deep - I stopped giving a fuck what the chicks I'd never sleep with thought and began using my poetry as a means of getting out aggression. Mind you, I was a 19 year old college student/d-boy trying to keep his name out the papers and trying to get his emotions out in some way, spape, or form. I stopped showing my poetry to my co-workers and started chronicling in Mead notebooks, to the point where I have at least 5 notebooks that are filled from front to back with my writings. So I stayed deep, but it went from non-sense to actual relief and real shit my nigga. The non-sense of it all lasted for a solid 3 weeks. The truth and honest revealing of my own thoughts lasted for years. I got a lot out of my soul that way. I became a better person. And Damon's story about "it's still going on" would be hella suspect if he ever spit that shit at cypher. Point is…I was only fake deep for a minute til I realized my true calling…


…stuntin' on hoes.


—-Panama Jackson

Also, my fake deep phase, though ended via my story and I took it serious HAS translated into my ability to spit non-sensical freestyle spoken word off the top of my head in a moment's notice about anything at any time. I have absolutely been called on my claim and delivered every time. I can spit "fallacy of reality" with the best of them.


So my current fake deep is all for show when motherfucks pretend they don't know what time it is with my spitfire game. Ain't nobody comin' to see Otis, but Panama…motherfucks comin' to see me my niggas.

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. That's how deep I am. Because that shit was still hot.





My fake deep is so deep I don't even think I've climbed out of it yet.
My fake deep consisted of:

-writing poems with working titles like "Europe Ran a Train on Africa"
-getting a grad degree in Amiri Baraka and Ntozake Shange's poetry,

-playing Donnie's "Cloud 9" in a dark room with candles flickering as I big chopped for the very first time; I WROTE FREEDOM AND LIBERATION ON THE SCISSOR HANDLES, MY DUDES!

-getting my future husband to pre-propose to me on FB because of a poem I wrote about Black kings (true story)
-writing a natural hair manifesto
-reclaiming my history as child of commune-living Pan-Africanists who named me Tafakari when I was born

Yeaaaaaaaaah, I'm Black hole deep. Capitalize the B in Black, mofos.