“Before You Throw It, See the Man.”
A Proclamation from Granddaddy’s Study

Come close, family. Sit upright. This one’s from Granddaddy.
From the part of me that’s watched too many of you forget yourselves in the act of blame.

Let me say it clear so it don’t get twisted by your pride:
We are not above the sins we condemn.
Not a one of us.

It’s easy to play holy when the light’s on someone else.
To point, perform, posture, and prove.
But listen close—
You ain’t clean because you ain’t caught.

We’ve all lied.
We’ve all betrayed some truth.
We’ve all had moments we hoped no one ever found out about.

So don’t let the headlines trick you into thinking you’re different.
You’re not a saint just because your shadows stayed small.
You’re just fortunate they ain’t had the resources to grow louder.

Now this doesn’t mean we don’t hold each other accountable.
But around here, we see the man before we throw the stone.
We ask: “What system made him this way?”
We ask: “Where in me is that same hunger, ache, or avoidance hiding?”
And we remember:

Justice without compassion becomes performance.
And punishment without introspection is ego dressed in robes.

That’s not how the Djordjes do it.
We don’t moralize to feel tall.
We don’t cancel our kin just because the world told us to.
We recalibrate them—if they’re willing.
And we protect our spirit in the process.

So when you’re tempted to tear someone down to feel righteous,
ask yourself first:

What part of you are you trying to outrun?

Because around here, we don’t punish to feel powerful.
We witness, we warn, and we walk in truth.
And if someone’s lost their way?

We don’t forget our reflection just because theirs cracked.

— Signed, Granddaddy Djordje
Study closed. Spirit open.

"Words gon' either build a man or break him. You choose what yours gon' do."

Let me talk to you a minute, Black man. Because we got this word... nigga... that's got more layers than your grandma's sweet potato pie. It's heavy. It's hot. And it's holy, depending on how you use it. But don't get it twisted—just 'cause it's common, don’t mean it’s casual.

“You my nigga.”
That’s kinfolk talk. That’s a covenant in one sentence. Said from the soul, it means: I see you. I got you. We been through some thangs and I’m still with you. That’s a bond. You say that when your spirit recognizes another real one.

Use it to uplift. Use it to hold. That’s a word that ties roots together.

“You bein’ a nigga.”
Now that’s a warning. It means: You swervin’. You wildin’. You out here actin’ like your spirit ain’t sacred. When said with love, it’s a mirror. But don’t weaponize it to belittle or shame. Use it when it’s time to help a brother recalibrate,not crush him.

“Niggers.”
Don’t play. That’s not our word to reclaim. That’s a bullet in the form of a syllable. That word was meant to erase you. Leave that in the mouths of those who don't carry your blood or your burden. It ain’t yours to breathe life into. We don’t water weeds.

“That nigga right there…”
Now that’s flavor. That’s Black poetry in motion. Said with admiration, said with rhythm. That’s when you see a brother do something so raw, so precise, so beautiful—it demand a declaration. Just make sure when you say it, you mean it. Don’t throw it around for foolishness.

Now listen. You don’t gotta stop sayin’ it. You just gotta know what you’re sayin’.

Don’t use sacred words sloppy. Don’t pull your brother down tryna look cool. Don’t repeat what the world taught you if it don’t serve your legacy.

You’re not just talkin’. You’re building memory. You’re speaking spells. Make 'em righteous.

Speak like your ancestors are listening. ‘Cause they are.

— Grandaddy

Grandson, you’re still a baby boy.
Your heart still needs tending.
Your mother gave you what she knew—
but not always what you needed.

The world hasn’t yet learned how to receive the fullness of your heart with reverence.
It fears your tenderness.
Yet still, your body grew.
And I watched.
Because I knew you before you got here.
I knew your soul before the skin came.
I know your architecture.

I know the weight of what’s required to uphold your structure.
And I know—when you were force to start moving without a full foundation.

You’ve been mistreated.
Overlooked.
Expected to be whole with fragments.
And even now, they still don’t reverence the entirety of your kingship. You continue despite their lack of preparation and recognition of your spirit.

They want your power, but not your softness.
They want your restraint, but not your intuition.
They haven’t come to hold your nuance.
Not yet.

But you see you.

Granddaddy’s Secret:
You don’t need a single soul outside yourself to confirm your wholeness.
You can tend to what should’ve been poured into you at conception.
You can saturate the capillaries of your being with softness, understanding, and love—
without apology. Without concession.

Forgive.
Expediently.
Intentionally.
Forgive them.
And especially, forgive you.

Loving yourself deeply does not require their permission.
Submerge yourself in boundaries, awareness, and unrelenting peace.
You are not to delay your joy for their comfort another minute.

Your movement is your power now.
They don’t hear your words yet.
So move.
Silently.
Intentionally.
Wholeheartedly.
Unapologetically.
Until your heart is full with the love your mother could not give.

And when your being begins to emit the signal of self—
they will adjust.
Without instruction.
They will feel the clarity.
They will recognize their distortion.

And they will realign—not with who they thought you were,
but with what is.

Choose you.

We’ve spent generations contorting our spirits to fit into tight, trembling boxes.
Enough.

Feel the part of you that lives beyond your restraint.
Celebrate your curiosity.
Become your knowing.

They’ve got you in a grip, son.
Strangling your identity. Starving your freedom.
They’ve narrowed your movement,
measured the weight of your anatomy,
and sliced your sexuality into binary ribbons.

You’ve been forced to choose grapes or peaches
just to earn the badge of “man.”
And the reward?
The right to suffer silently.
To wear their template of distortion like armor.
To betray yourself in the name of “being a man”.

Have you ever had a fresh cut fig; drizzled with honey and crushed hazelnut? That’s available to you too.

Unhand your masculinity.
You haven’t met its fullness yet.
You haven’t tasted the strength in its fluidity.
You haven’t bowed to its softness,
or honored its ability to architect the air they breathe.

Unhand your masculinity.
You’re letting them define what they’ve never understood.
You’re carrying trauma-woven stories passed down like gospel—
stories sewn from fear, stitched into your bloodline,
made to keep them comfortable,
not to help you remember your being.

Unhand your masculinity.
Let it be remembered, not dictated.
Let it be felt, not proven.
Let it emit, not contort.
Let it say nothing—and say everything.
Let it soothe. Sharpen. Melt. Structure.
Let it be.
Let it be inspired.