PART ONE
I
THE GUCCI MAN
Iâve got such strong ties to the city of Atlanta that people forget I didnât move to Georgia until I was nine.
My roots are in Bessemer, Alabama, a country coal town about twenty miles south of Birmingham. My great-grandparents on my daddyâs side, George Dudley Sr. and Amanda Lee Parker, moved there in 1915 from the even more rural Greensboro, Alabama, where the Dudley family tree dates back to the 1850s.
George Sr. and Amanda headed to Bessemer in search of a better life. It was an area rich with natural resourcesâcoal, limestone, oreâall the ingredients to sustain what was then a booming industryâsteel. George Sr. managed to secure employment as an ore miner at the old Muscoda Red Ore Mining Company, near the community of Muscoda Village.
Back then steel companies looked out for their workers. Employees received cheap housing so most of the black miners of the mining community lived in company-owned homes. They created schools, a church, a medical dispensary, and a commissary where workers could purchase food and supplies on credit.
Soon enough white folk of the area turned jealous of the blacksâ housing and the company-operated social programs, and decided they wanted them for themselves. So the blacks were moved out. Many were left homeless. But that wasnât the case for my great-grandfather. With the help of his money-minded wife he purchased a small home at 723 Hyde Avenue in Bessemer, a property that is family owned to this day.
George and Amanda had twelve children togetherâand 723 Hyde was bustlinâ. Their household was a place where family and friends in need of a hot meal or a place to stay were always welcome. They were loving folks with big hearts.
When George Sr. would collect his paycheck, the stub would often be blank because of the money he owed the commissary for food. It never bothered him in the slightest.
George Sr. loved foodâall the Dudleys didâand he loved to see his family eating right. Heâd come home exhausted after a long dayâs work at the coal mine and still find the energy to cook something up for his family. And heâd always bring back a treat for his childrenâcookies, penny candy, fruits. Heâd divide equally among all of âem.
One of those twelve children was my grandfather James Dudley Sr., born April 5, 1920. James Sr. spent twelve years in the military as a cook and fought in the Second World War. After his time in the service he taught radio and television at Wenonah Technical School and later on worked as a postman.
James Sr. married Olivia Freeman on September 20, 1941. They had eleven children, the sixth of whom was my father, Ralph Everett Dudley, born August 23, 1955.
Throughout the course of his life my father went by a lot of aliases. Slim Daddy. Ralph Witherspoon. Ricardo Love. For the purposes of this story, a nickname he received as a young boy matters most: Gucci Mane. Thatâs right. Heâs the OG.
See, James Sr. had always fancied himself a dresser. He loved him some nice clothes and expensive leather shoes. Heâd spent time in Italy during his years in the service, which is where he fell in love with the Gucci brand.
Originally heâd given the nickname Gucci to one of his nephews, an older cousin of my fatherâs whom my father used to follow around all the time. Annoyed by his younger cousin always begging to hang and telling him âCome on, man,â he started calling my father the âGucci Man.â As for how âmanâ became âMane,â well, Iâm pretty sure thatâs just some country, Alabama twang. Iâve got an uncle on my mommaâs side they call Big Mane.
My auntie Kaye told me that as a boy my father was sharp, soft-spoken, and sensitive. He was always at the top of his class. He suffered from a speech impediment and would have to spell out words he was trying to say so people could understand him. James Sr., a military man, didnât always approve of his sonâs mild-mannered temperament, and would yell at him for refusing to fight with the boys in the neighborhood.
But as a young man my father came into his own. With his speech impediment gone he became a slick talker, very much a people person. He wore Leviâs and played the guitar and listened to Jimi Hendrix, Peter Frampton, Mick Jaggerâall the rock ânâ roll stars of the sixties and seventies. His bedroom had guitars mounted on the walls and tapestries hanging from the ceiling. He drove a two-seater drop-top convertible, an MG Midget. He was supercool, ahead of his time for a young black man from Alabama.
After graduating from Jess Lanier High School in 1973, my father enlisted in the US Army, spending two years stationed in South Korea. When he returned to Alabama in 1976, he briefly attended college before getting a job making dynamite at the Hercules Powder plant in Bessemer. After that he worked at the Cargill chemical plant. My father took full advantage of the GI Bill and had quite a bit of technical schooling under his belt. The guy was smart as hell.
But I never knew my father as a working man. I never saw him hold a nine-to-five job my whole life. All of that happened before me. I understood my father as a hustler, an alley cat, someone who more than any other person Iâve met was shaped by the streets. But Iâm getting ahead of myself. More on all that later.
My mommaâs from Bessemer too. Vicky Jean Davis is the daughter of Walter Lee Davis. Walter and his siblings were raised not too far from Montgomery, Alabama, in Autauga County.
Walter was stationed in the Pacific during World War II, where he served aboard âOld Nameless,â the battleship officially known as the USS South Dakota. He was a cook on Old Nameless, but when the Battle of Santa Cruz went down in October 1942, he hopped on one of the antiaircraft machine guns and got it poppinâ. He took down a few planes before he got chewed up by one of the Japanese strafers. He got shot up so bad it made it into the papers.
âHe looked like one of his own kitchen colanders,â said the captain, Vice Admiral Tom Gatch. âBut they couldnât kill him.â It was a miracle he survived that battle.
When he came home Walter relocated to Bessemer, where he found employment at Zeiglerâs, a meat packaging company not unlike Oscar Mayer. He was one of their first black supervisors.
He also met his wife, Bettie. Together they had seven childrenâJean, Jacqueline, Ricky, Patricia, Walter Jr., Debra, and Vicky. Bettie had two sonsâHenry and Ronnieâfrom two prior marriages.
My mommaâs upbringing wasnât easy. Around the time of her birth Walter and Bettie took up drinking. Soon enough, violence became an everyday occurrence in the Davis household. To this day my family tells the craziest stories about my grandmomma. Bettie Davis was a mean drunk like you wouldnât believe. This little lady would get to fighting with somebody at dinner and reach across the dining room table and stab them with a fork. Hell, I heard she shot my granddaddy once.
When she passed away from a stroke at the young age of forty-four, my motherâs sisters had to take on the role of caretaker for their younger siblings. They kept a roof over everyoneâs head and food on the table, but there was a lot to be desired. My aunties were only a few years older than my momma and they hadnât had the best role models themselves.
But as resilient people do, my momma adapted to survive. Vicky Davis always was, and to this day remains, a very smart, hardworking, resourceful woman. And tough. She graduated from Jess Lanier High School in 1975 and went on to get an associateâs degree at Lawson State. After Lawson she enrolled in Miles College, a historically black school in Fairfield, Alabama, where she studied to become a social worker.
Thatâs around the time she met Ralph Dudley, in 1978. My father already knew the Davis family. Heâd been classmates with my aunt Pat at Lanier. But heâd never met my momma. When he did it was instant attraction. They fell in love quick.
My momma already had a son, my older brother, Victor. He goes by Duke. But Dukeâs father wasnât in the picture. Dukeâs got another half brother, Carlos, who was born the same month and year he was. So thatâs what his daddy was up to then.
During my mommaâs pregnancy my father got into trouble with the law. Heâd been arrested for having drugs on himâno small crime in the seventiesâand was facing time. James Sr. had recently passed away unexpectedly and my grandmother Oliviaâwhom we call Madearâstill had kids to raise. So instead of facing the music, which would cause Madear the undue stress of seeing her son sent to prison, my father fled.
He headed north to Detroit, which was where he was on the day of my birth, February 12, 1980.
Because my father wasnât around to sign the birth certificate I was born Radric Delantic Davis, taking my motherâs last name. Like my conception nine months before, my first name, Radric, was a product of my parentsâ unionâhalf Ralph, half Vicky.
II
1017
I came up in my granddaddyâs house at 1017 First Avenueâan olive-green, two-bedroom in Bessemer near the train tracks. Inside were my granddaddy, my momma, Duke, and me. But it was never just us.
1017 had a rotating cast of family characters who could be staying there at any time. Walter Jr., my uncleâwe call him Goatâwas always in and out of jail. When he wasnât locked up, heâd be there. Or one of my many aunties and her kids might move in for a while.
The house was small, 672 square feet to be precise, so things got tight. Sometimes Duke and I got the bunk beds. Sometimes Iâd be on the couch. Other times the floor. My granddaddy had an extra roll-away bed in his room. At one point there was a bed in the living room. It switched up.
Growing up, I called Walter Sr. Daddy. He and I were close. Tall and slender, my granddaddy appeared every bit the gentleman. He wore a suit and tie every day. On Saturdays one of my cousins would go to the cleaners and pick up his freshly pressed clothes for the week. Theyâd grab him cigarettes too. This was back when kids could buy cigarettes. Camel Straights.
My granddaddy and I had this thing where I would see him up the block coming home from the First Baptist church. As soon as Iâd see him turn the corner Iâd stop playing kickball or football or whatever it was I was doing and race up First Avenue to meet him. Iâd grab his hand and help him walk the rest of the way home.
âYour grandson sure loves you, Mr. Walter,â the old ladies would call out from their porches.
The funny thing was my granddaddy didnât need help walking. His cane had gotten himself to church just fine. But he played along, putting on a limp like he needed my help. That was our inside thing and I felt proud to walk alongside him.
Like many in my family, he had his demons. I donât know if my granddaddy turned to the bottle to cope with the mental or physical effects of war. Deep scars crossed his body. Or maybe it was something invisible. Whatever it was, the man was a drinker.
In Bessemer most folks drank the wino winesâWild Irish Rose, Thunderbirdâbut my granddaddy liked liquor. Bourbon. He had a girlfriend, Miss Louise, and the two of them would get pissy drunk at one of the shot houses nearby until they were stumbling down the street with bloodshot eyes.
But I loved my granddaddy. Every night I would sit on his knee and weâd watch TV. When I would act up heâd chase me around the house, saying he was gonâ whip me, and Iâd dive under his bed laughing, knowing that he couldnât catch me down there.
I was just as close with Madear, my grandmother on my fatherâs side. Sheâd played a big part in my childcare while my momma was in college working toward her degree.
Madearâs house was over in Jonesboro Heights, an even quieter, even more country part of Bessemer that sits on a hill outside the city limits. Itâs a tight-knit community made up of three streetsâSecond Street, Third Street, and Main Streetâwith two churches: New Salem Baptist and First Baptist. Itâs known fondly by its residents as the Happy Hollow.
As soon as I learned to ride a bicycle I struck out on my own to go there. Iâd get in trouble for doing that. It wasnât like the Hollow was around the corner. It was a ways away. You had to cross the main highway to get there. For a little boy, the mile-and-a-half trek was a real journey. But I loved spending time with Madear. She spoiled me.
Whenever Iâd come over sheâd have something for meâtoys, coloring books, GI Joes. Weâd watch TV for hours. Sometimes wrestling, sometimes Wheel of Fortune, sometimes Jeopardy!
âThereâs my smart grandbaby,â sheâd say if I knew the answer to one of the trivia questions. âI donât even have to think anymore because I know Radric knows the answers.â
If I wasnât with one of my grandparents, then I was following my brother around. Duke is six years older, so you know how that goes. To me he was supercool, and I was his shadow. I really got on his nerves. I would always be stealing his clothes to wear and trying to hang with him and his buddies.
Duke didnât care for that much, but I didnât care that he minded. Iâd trail him and his little crew on my bike, usually from a distance because my brother would beat my ass if he knew I was following them. He didnât want me to see what he and his friends were up to. Iâd watch them steal beers from the corner store or throw rocks through car windows and take off running. It wasnât much. Country teenagers getting into country teenage shit. But I was a curious child. I needed to know what everyone was up to.
Duke was a bona fide music enthusiast. He put me onto all the great hip-hop of the eighties. Every week he would go to the Bessemer Flea Market and come home with whatever new album had just come out. Heâd pop the casse...