“Turn it down!” “You know you shouldn’t be listening to that mess!” “Quit listening to all that cussing!” But they just couldn’t understand. They did not realize that the images which lined my bedroom walls were not simply of a rap artist I thought was cool. That the lamentations of my generation’s ghetto Moses were the songs of a freedom we didn’t realize we needed. Even at 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11 years old, I knew what it was to feel the sting of our slavers past and the promise of restored Black glory as told through the poetry of our very own prophet, Tupac Shakur. All those grown ups had no idea that telling me not to listen to and gaze upon the raw beauty in the form of Black skin, tattooed abs, sad eyes, and sun kissed lips which brought forth a new Black gospel, would simply go in one ear and out the other. And as if a story straight out of divine scripture, 1996 proved to be the year when death first touched my soul as it stole our prophet away, leaving us lost and alone, only to witness 26 years later the resurrection we’ve all been waiting for. He received freedom in death, and now we have awakened our beloved to embrace him once again with a kind of reminiscence and exaltation that could only exist after losing my generation’s Malcolm, Martin, and Marcus rolled into one ethereal body. Welcome back dear King Shakur.

From the moment I walked through the door of the receiving gallery and looked up to see his tattoos come to life before me, flashes of my proverbial encounters with Tupac during my childhood rushed through my mind’s eye. The Shed So Many Tears single on cassette tape that broke after playing it over and over again and remained stored in my dresser drawer through my teenage years. The way he rebelliously chewed his gum during on-camera interviews. The smile, oh that goddamn smile he gave Janet on the Poetic Justice set and feeling as though he was actually smiling at me. The purse of his lips when he cussed out the press. The vein in his neck I imagined pulsating when he screamed out “Black Power” on his Only God Can Judge Me track. He was back, he was alive and well as we proceeded to walk side-by-side through his long overdue exhibition, Wake Me When I’m Free.

What I appreciated most about this exhibition was that though it was beautifully executed, professionally developed, and one of a kind in both content and design, it felt like I was visiting an old friend I hadn’t seen in years rather than a traditionally untouchable, stiff museum experience. There was no sense of ego or high-horsery, rather I felt welcomed and comfortably intrigued by the deep dive into the life of the man whom I always wished, and even at times pretended I personally knew. The anticipation of what would appear behind that door with the rose that grew from concrete was enough to make me shutter. Then entering the all black room surrounded by a floor-to-ceiling 360 degree screen ignited my adrenaline, as the story of Tupac Shakur began through a visual immersion into his humble beginnings and leading to the icon we all know and at times painfully love. The homage to his mother, late activist, Black Panther, and poet Afeni Shakur reminded me of the first time I heard the best tribute to Black mothers everywhere as could only be told by Tupac in his famed track Dear Mama. The street storefront with Black Panther posters and news articles facade in the post introductory gallery gave me pure Black joy and even slight envy, wishing I could have been so lucky to have been raised in the heart of our revolutionary history like Tupac was. But the star in the room besides the great Shakur himself was the towering black fist sculpture atop a base with the U.S. flag stars and stripes, sitting on a bed of black police handcuffs in the center of the gallery. Standing before this impeccable work of art, I felt the weight of Black America on my shoulders, the weight which was on Pac’s shoulders. It was beautiful and paralyzing.

I walked through my own childhood memories in reading about Tupac’s favorite toys and pastimes, laughing out loud with the sense of connection. I loved my tricycle too, and writing stories and drawing pictures just like the ones he created as a boy. And then came the genius that is his lyrical depth. I was reminded of a simpler time, when pen to paper was all we needed to create a masterpiece, engage the world, and to live forever as I traced his written words with my finger on the plexi that separated my hand from his. The shear size of the body of written work by Tupac is worth more than any commodity in this world and beyond. All I could keep saying to myself was “pure genius” the whole way through as I spotted the handwritten lyrics of all my favorite Tupac songs. I was engulfed in his words, and in that moment, there was no other place I would rather have been. I only wish that this gallery was a bit more equally enchanting in design, but then again, the best food is created in the least likely spaces, so in the end I did not mind the lacking creativity in design of that particular gallery.

Walking through the gallery which showcased Tupac’s filmography had me super fan-girling. The audio-guides provided to visitors in the receiving area at the start of the experience proved highly useful and appropriate in this gallery, as it consisted of a complete mash-up of all of the cinematic wonders Pac took center stage in including Above the Rim, Poetic Justice, Juice, and more, as well as several of his early music videos. Dancing like no one else was in the room, Pac and I bopped and bounced and giggled together with every turn. He whispered his words in my ear as each beat knocked in my chest. And even though I had heard those words more times than I could count over the years, this time he gently spoke them aloud as if reciting a love poem he wrote just for me.

I then made my way into the gallery that showcased what was likely one of the most difficult aspects of Tupac’s journey, being incarcerated. From the jail cell representing his mother Afeni’s spell behind bars decades prior to Pac’s stint, to the handwritten song lyrics, and the letters Tupac received while locked up from other Hip Hop legends, emotions ran high thinking of the hell that is a modern-day slave plantation we call prison. Still, inspiration struck as I read Ms. Shakur’s words written in spite of the injustice and attempts at stifling her Black voice that she suffered, and Tupac’s lyrical gospel while enduring the same torture separated only by a few decades. This gallery definitely stirred up the feels.

Moving into the galley that showcased Tupac’s peak career memorabilia, I relived some of the best musical moments in history. With each display of Pac’s most iconic wardrobe looks, we danced in celebration and remembrance of his greatest hits from his All Eyez On Me and Makaveli albums, and watching their music videos, basking in a familiar comfort. It felt like home. With each song that played at every display case I chuckled, Pac whispering “remember this one” in my ear. I remember every single outfit as if I hand picked them myself. It was funny and odd looking at his 1990’s to the bone clothing, getting a not so fun reminder of how much time has passed, as was clearly evident by the contrasting fashion trends of the other visitors – who I nearly forgot were even there.

The rollercoaster of emotions this experience evoked, from joy and pain to triumph and fury, echoed the very essence of Tupac himself. And as I made my way to the wall that displayed the last photo ever taken of him alive, just before he was shot and killed in 1996, my heart grew weak. I was shot back in time to my 11 year old self, sitting in my bedroom with tears pouring out as I watched the breaking news on television. My hero was gone.

The final gallery was filled with indescribable emotion. As I stood before the block of concrete with a single rose standing tall in the center of its jagged peak, my breath suddenly caught in my throat, and I could swear Tupac was by my side, holding my hand while my inner 11 year old wept. The whole room fell silent. His words blown up alongside his Pharaonic face sang to me from the walls that held them in place. It was the farewell I never got to give to the best friend I had and never had. But the best part of the whole experience, stepping outside of my intimate walk down memory lane with our late great King Shakur, was getting to share this historic journey with my daughter, who is a major Tupac fan in her own right. She saw my vulnerability that day as I became that inquisitive, fiery little kid preparing for a freedom fight through the redemption songs of my crucified messiah, and I saw her sparkle with inspiration and joy as she got to meet our resurrected king. I could not have hoped for a better reunification and to share such a moment with my mini me.