Ice

by Ice-T

  I walked to the apartment building. Made a beeline straight for the Porsche, then peeled off the canvas tarp. I get my ratchet out, I’m standing inside the Porsche, about to steal the part, and suddenly I hear screaming. I whirl around and at least ten kids from the apartment building above have spotted me. They shouted so fucking loud, and a few are now streaming out of this door, running toward me.

  For a second I thought they were calling for the police to bust my ass. But no—as they ran closer I saw the pieces of paper and pens. They were asking for autographs.

  “Ice-T! Ice-T!”

  “Yo, it’s Ice-T! Yo, sign this, Ice!”

  In the heat of my criminal-mindedness, I’d completely forgotten that I even was Ice-T. I was just back into that zone where I was a bad guy, a straight-up hustler.

  My face was well-enough known that somebody from one of those windows above me had spotted me lifting the tarp just as I pulled out my ratchet.

  Now I’m sitting in this Porsche half-stealing this part—stone-cold busted, because I got the ratchet in my hand—and I have to put on this big cheesy smile.

  “Hey! What’s up, lil’ homey? Y’all want autographs?”

  Before I could even blink, a bunch of their parents are running outside. And they all want autographs, too. So now I end up signing autographs for fifteen minutes, managed to duck any photographs. Luckily, this was the age before digital cameras and cellphone cameras.

  Nobody even looked at me askance. It appeared so innocent. All the residents of the building naturally assumed it was my own Porsche I’d parked there for some fucking reason. So that’s when I realized, with a little bit of sadness: Damn! I can’t do this anymore. I’m too famous to steal.

  I HAD A SITUATION not that long ago—a serious altercation with some people out here in New York. I can’t get too specific about where or when, but the situation got violent. When we left the building there were people laid out. Nobody died, fortunately. But it was some serious shit. When I got home I was real sullen and contemplative for hours.

  Damn, Ice. That was your whole career right there. You’re out here acting on instinct—but in the heat of the moment, did you even think about the twenty-five years of busting your ass? Man, you can’t do this anymore.

  There’s a basic street law: talk shit, get punched in the face. Everybody knows that law. Different folks have different lines. And my line is way to the left. I’m the kind of dude that if I accidentally step on your shoes and you say, “Hey! What the hell?” I’ll not only apologize, I’ll wipe them off for you. “My bad, money, my bad.” But if apologizing to you is not enough, if you still want to talk shit, then I could flip a switch and go to a very bad place. You dig?

  So this particular guy got out of pocket, crossed that line, and I had to flip the switch. It got real ugly, real fast.…

  After that I sat at my house for a couple days, waiting it out. Waiting for the cops to come. But they never came. Still, it was a moment of reckoning. I had to talk to my wife. I had to talk to everybody in my crew.

  I said, “Yo, I can’t even go outdoors if this type of stuff is going to happen. I have to contain myself. I need everybody’s help. You know how I get down. Let’s avoid this.” And so every day, since that altercation, I’ve just become much, much, much more passive. From time to time I still get angry, of course, but I’ve just learned how to contain it. It’s a tough psychological trick. You have to learn to channel the anger into something positive. For me it’s not a matter of choice. Certain people have to learn how to channel their rage or they’re just going to end up locked up.

  THAT’S THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD. At the end of the day, looking back on my career, I believe that whatever respect I’ve got comes from the fact that the people that I was involved with in the life—hustlers, pimps, and killers—know that I was an active person in the game. I actively did everything I rhymed about. That’s why I’ve gone twenty-five years doing this shit. That’s the only way you go twenty-five years rapping autobiographically and never have your credibility challenged.

  You’ve never heard anybody come out and say, “Man, Ice-T’s a fake. Ice-T didn’t do this. Ice-T didn’t do that.” As far-fetched as I can make things sound, whenever I go someplace in Los Angeles or travel around the country, cats will tell a story exactly the same way that I tell it—not one single detail changed or exaggerated.

  I had a record where I said:

  My life’s been a great story in the ultimate war

  Should I ill or do right? Make peace or go raw?

  I can’t explain the true penalties of fame and the wealth

  Tell me who can I trust? I can’t trust myself

  The devil got me thinking ’bout them ill moves

  Every damn kid on the street, they got something to prove

  Push a bullet through my heart, why not? That’s a start

  They could pump their reps quicker, kill a well-known nigga …

  I know what it would be like for a youngster to kill me—to murder a “well-known nigga.” I know exactly what he’s thinking: Fuck a old dude. Think I give a fuck? Ain’t nothin’, cuz.

  That’s one of my skills as a writer, being able to flip my brain back to being twenty-one years old. Understanding that ruthless, reckless mentality is what keeps me safe. As they age, people tend to lose that mental agility. I use it all the time in making music.

  Most people hear an unexpected knock on the door—they picture a friend of theirs, a neighbor, maybe a deliveryman. I always see the fucking ski masks. I see the motherfuckers storming into my world on some ready-to-die shit. That’s just the dark, twisted imagery I always have in my mind.

  FUNNY STORY about Quentin Tarantino. I loved Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction—all Quentin’s movies, and especially his scripts, are off-the-chain. So I went to Tarantino one day, told him that I wanted some help writing a screenplay.

  “Quentin,” I said, “I’ve got a movie idea and I wanted to get your advice—” He cut me off.

  “Dude,” he said. “Where do you think I get all my ideas from? From your music! You don’t need any help from me writing anything.”

  FOR ALL THE DIRT I did, I’m the kind of dude that would always try to learn something from the dark side of life, take away a lesson and then I’d put it in a record.

  In my younger days, I saw myself as this guy running down a road—this hustling road—and yelling at everybody on my left and right: “Yo, you not gonna win! I’m the baddest at this shit!”

  And then when I got to what I thought was the finish line, the end of that hustling road, I saw that there was a steep cliff. And all my friends who were hustling with me, they kept falling off that cliff.

  Now I’m the guy who’s spun around, running back up the road, yelling at folks:

  “Don’t do it! Ain’t nothin’ up there but a fuckin’ cliff!”

  All I see are smirks and slick glances. “Yo, you’re a sucker!” and “Fuck you, Ice. I’m ten times smarter than you.”

  I understand them. I’ve been them. Some cats just ain’t ready for the truth. They don’t get it.

  But they’ll get it when they reach that cliff.

  I can’t convince everybody, but I look at this way: At least I’m yelling.

  LOVE KEEPS YOU ALIVE in the game—not fear. Never fear. When you get to that certain level of O.G., no one’s afraid of anybody. But if motherfuckers love you, you’re straight.

  Love’s the reason I can connect with the brothers doing hard time. When I go into prison, see the homeys, I just humble myself. I sit there in the visiting room and listen to them. We chop it up for hours. That’s who gives me the motivation to stay the course.

  When you talk to the lifers in a joint like Sing Sing, they know it’s too late for them. They’ve written their past, their present, and their future. It’s a sealed book. But more than anything else, these guys doing life in prison want me to be a transmitter to the young kids. They’re trying to give me the information
that I can translate to a young buck before he goes to jail.

  Crime is a macho brainwashing, a psychological warp where you begin to believe you’re bigger than the rest of the world because you know how to break the law and get away with it. Sure, there’s something sexy about being the outlaw. Once you buy into that and you’re out to break the law, decide you can’t work a square job, feel that you’re something special, you’re running head on into the machine that says, “Hold on. Nope. We gonna keep you in line.”

  Whatever slick shit you think you’re doing on the street, you’re good until the fucking Feds get you in their sights. When you’re small-time, no one gives a fuck about you. Once they decide that you’re big enough to warrant fifty or a hundred agents on you, dude, you’re a wrap. I don’t give a fuck who you are. Ain’t nobody untouchable.

  Like we always used to say when I was pulling jewelry licks: You raise the risk, you raise the profit. But also—you raise the risk, you raise the problem.

  So when I talk to the kids in various juvenile facilities, I tell ’em. “Look at y’all. Y’all got caught, and you’re still little petty punks. You’re in juvie, a bunch of petty criminals. What makes you think you can be a big-time gangster, and you won’t get caught again? You’re already fucking up and you’re in the first grade!”

  Then I’ve got one question that usually wipes the smirks off their faces: “Do you know anyone who’s over thirty that’s never been to jail and never been caught?”

  No one raises a hand.

  “Think on that. Why would you get into a business when you know there’s no way out? Listen, the smart hustlers are the ones who figure a legit hustle and take it to the bank. You can still keep your swagger, you can still be cool, you can still have all that fly shit—but don’t get it twisted: We ain’t in the day of Jesse James when you could rob banks and ride three hundred miles and nobody’s going to chase you down. The cops got GPS tracking, helicopters, plus all them innocent bystanders with camera phones putting your ass on YouTube—a thousand technological advantages for the Feds and local cops to nail your ass.

  The kids I’m talking to think they’re real slick. But that’s cool, too. I understand them because I was one of them. Bottom line, all criminals want to do is live that good life. They think they found a slicker route to the money.

  “Yeah, you been online, homey? You seen the pictures of me with the Bentley Continental and Lamborghini Murcielago? Check this out. I came from nothing. I was homeless. My parents died when I was younger than you. I tried my luck at all the illegal shit that you guys are trying your luck at. But look how I’m doing in the legit world. And they said I couldn’t do it.”

  Now you do have some sociopaths out there, people who are definitely hardcore violent or twisted people who get off on the sheer aggression. Some get off on the pleasure of domination, or inflicting pain. I never was that kind of guy. I never got off on being tough or aggressive. I loved the excitement of crossing the line. Also, I just thought I was slick.

  Of course, living the life, I ran into some dangerous individuals. You gotta stay clear of them cats if you’re not one of them. Most of the cats in the street life keep a small circle of people they fuck with, because they really don’t know how some outside dudes will get down. You don’t know if they’re psychopaths. You don’t know what they gonna do under pressure. Notice how the Mob families keep it real tight—they’ve been burned by undercovers and snitches—but in the old days, they used to have it so they never allowed an unknown entity inside the circle.

  You never know when you might brush into some cat ready to flip. Like Melle Mel said, “Don’t push me ’cause I’m close to the edge.” That’s why I always lived by the credo, “I’m not out here to prove I’m the toughest guy in the room. I just want to make it out of the room.”

  These kids in juvenile jails are tough. They can do their bids. It’s a badge of honor to them. The frustrating thing about prison is that it’s something you’ve got to take a lot of before you really understand the consequences. I’ve got friends that were in supermax prisons twenty years before I heard them crack, before I heard them change their tune. Yo, man there’s other things I can be doing.

  I got a global look at life around the time I nearly died in the car crash. I was thinking: Look I’m so slick, but I’m struggling with paper now and then. Meanwhile, all these so-called squares got nice houses, sending their kids to Spring Break, and ain’t never thinking about the police. What the fuck’s the matter with this picture?

  It’s really tough for young folks to understand consequences. And one thing I’ve learned, delaying consequences doesn’t help. That’s why I trip when I see these Hollywood folks, these starlets like Lindsay Lohan, getting locked up over bullshit like a DUI. I mean—what the fuck? What’s the matter with these squares? I understand if you and me are bank robbers and we go to jail—if we’re out here breaking the law, we’re gangsters, bang-bangers, then getting knocked—that’s an occupational hazard. Jail’s part of our programming. If we get it, we get it. We’re tough guys, right? But Lindsay, you are an actress! You got money. You got options. You don’t even need to be trying to fuck with jail. Who the hell around you is giving you advice? Lindsay, do you really want to go in there and spend three months with some hard-ass jail bitches?

  MY SCHEDULE IS SUPERTIGHT these days shooting Special Victims Unit—since the cancellation of the original Law & Order, SVU has assumed the mantle of NBC’s flagship drama, coming off our twelfth season. I’m also recording new tracks, shooting more episodes of The Peacemaker, and putting together a bunch of other business deals. I’m always hustling. I never stop making moves. But like we always say, “The best hustle is the legit hustle.”

  Still, one aspect of my career I always make time for is traveling the country talking to young folks. I’ve been booked to speak at Harvard, Princeton, Stanford, UC Berkeley, as well as dozens of historically black colleges and universities.

  As cool as it is to hit the college lecture circuit—who could have imagined that an ex-hustler from Crenshaw Boulevard would be spitting game to Ivy League students?—the most satisfying thing I can do with my time is talk to little kids. Sometimes it’s organizations like the Boys and Girls Club of America. Sometimes it’s at public elementary, junior, and high schools. Sometimes it’s kids in group homes or juvenile facilities.

  For a while at least, I try to stop being Ice-T, try to hit them with the advice of Tracy Marrow—lessons I picked up on my journey as an orphaned eleven-year-old who followed the criminal world’s song before finding success in the entertainment industry.

  I’m not naïve. When I talk to kids, I know damn well that if I was broke they wouldn’t give a fuck what I have to say. But they see the success. They want to know how to be successful. That’s the only reason people follow anybody, from preachers to politicians. It’s in human nature to chase success. He did it—how can I do it?

  When I talk to kids, I have to walk in with—metaphorically—my gold records and my movie and TV credits. With all my trappings of success. Only then can I zero in and catch their attention.

  One thing I always stress to kids, one of the key lessons that drove me toward success, is “Don’t be afraid to take a loss.” You’re guaranteed to miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take. You’ve got to be able to fail. As a dude, if every girl you talk to has to like you, you’ll never hook up. You’ve got to work the averages. A girl gives you the brush-off—so what? Maybe she’s having a bad day. Maybe she’s got a better-looking boyfriend. Maybe you just look fucking nasty to her. Whatever, man.

  Nobody wins 100 percent of the time. A lot of people stagnate in life because they’re so afraid to lose. They use that fear as a crutch to not even try. Michael Jordan was the best I ever saw playing hoops and didn’t hit 100 percent of his jump shots. Babe Ruth had his fair share of strikeouts. You gotta know that’s part of the game. I’m in a career now—acting—where rejection hits you in the face ever
y goddamn day. Like we say, “Charge that to the game.”

  As hustlers, we also used to say: “It ain’t about the come up—it’s about the comeback.” Anybody can come up, but can they come back? That’s where you get your stripes. If you take an L, you have to get your shit together, shake it off, and come back. The biggest winners in life are the cats best at absorbing losses. Once you know how to fail, only then you can get in the game.

  Whenever I’m talking to kids—whether it’s at elementary schools or Ivy League colleges—at the end of the day, I can’t help but throw down a few intellectual challenges.

  “Read everything you can get your hands on, absorb all the knowledge at your fingertips,” I tell them. “Education is a beautiful thing. But remember, the most important thing to do is to think. Don’t think the way I do or follow everything I say, because then it’ll be just one of us thinking.”

  I tell them about Sergeant Donovan getting in my face and saying I was a loser who could never make it in the civilian world. I tell them that anger can be a great motivator if you channel it. How haters can drive you to success if you don’t allow that hate or resentment to eat up your insides.

  “That’s the flip side of success; the haters out there will always try to fuck your head up,” I say. “I’ll be minding my own business, walking down the street, and some clown starts yelling: ‘Yo, Ice! You ain’t Will Smith!’ ”

  You have to understand, if you’re trying to achieve something positive in life, you must be prepared for the negative attention that will come your way. People waiting to see you fail. People happy to see you in handcuffs.

  That’s just part of the game.

  No one hates down. They hate up.

  Look, I’ve been taken down by the fucking government, and I’m still standing. One thing I’ve learned is that there is just no way that you’re going to make everybody happy. Absolutely no way. So you just concern yourself with the people that you love, your intimate circle, and the people in the same intelligence bracket as you. And as long as you’re getting the co-sign from them, you’re straight. Fuck the haters. Best believe your real friends will pull your coat when you do something wrong. That’s all you need to worry about.