Introducing, and now Miguel
Some younger memories on the craft and what to expect
It's five in the morning, waking up yawning. Hop out fresh, wipe the coal from my eye. The Most High raised me; time to remake me. I wipe up fresh, brush, and take a bow to work from inside. I sit zazen. Let what needs to be worked through work itself through me. Then I wipe either my wet cheeks and snotty nosed mustache. On some days, I might smile after meditation though, and that smug mug I have to be wiped too. Time to get to work. The cool blue of this winter morning moves me. I queue up a beat and grab my pen or keyboard. I listen, and listen, and listen. Sometimes I’ll have a line or material from the next day to start a rhyme. Other times it’s a blank page. Regardless, writing always starts off with listening to a beat I made. That beat has always been the backbone of my artistic journey. Crafting my own canvas to paint words on.
I’ve spent 22 years writing and producing, always chasing the evolving goal of expanding and expressing consciousness through art. Creative practice feels like a moving river, carrying collective wisdom. The raft I find myself adrift is built by the poetics of rap and Hip-Hop. Sometimes I end up on its banks, rooting myself in its rich soil. Other times, I ride the rapids. Rapping. Staying fluid in flow. Producing new beat-canvases to carve. Through all the starts and stops, I ask myself: Why do I keep doing this? How did I end up on this raft, riding the creative river that has always been with us from jump?
I’ve created art in many forms since I could hold a pencil. Drawing was my first love. Inspired by anime and comics, I started plotting stories and creating characters. I began to plot. My early work reflected a Batman-like vibe, though I eventually saw the flaws in the Batman archetype. Even so, I admired Goku, the Japanese Clark Kent, whose compassion reminded me of the Buddha’s wisdom. Eventually, I shifted away from drawing. The change came in December 2001, during what felt like the end of the world, when Nas dropped Stillmatic.
Nas’ line, “I saw a dead bird fly through a broken sky,” from the track “You’re the Man” struck me deeply. That single bar ignited a new artistic pursuit. I set down my colored pencils and traded my computer paper—my go-to for drawing—for a composition notebook. While I didn’t quit drawing immediately, I realized then that I wanted to make music.
Doubt followed close behind. Internalized, it would ask: “How will you create this kind of art? Your super Catholic Dominican mom won’t approve of you cursing. And let’s be real—you’re not living the life that pop Hip-Hop acts glamorize.”
But something inside me countered, Maybe I can rap about being myself.
***
Music pulled me in for practical and inspirational reasons. On the practical side, I quickly realized how easy it was to record and produce music on my own. On the inspirational side, Hip-Hop pushed me to rap. It motivated me to contribute, elevate, and leave a mark. I admired how rappers, DJs, producers, and breakdancers created with confidence and always had something to prove. I carried a boulder-sized chip on my shoulder, and I needed something I was good at to help my self esteem.
I stepped away from drawing because I couldn’t create or share finished work. Growing up in my household, artistic extracurriculars were not really encouraged. Also, being my labeling as a remedial student kept me from those opportunities.
By seventh grade, I had already repeated kindergarten and sixth grade. The messaging was, “your not smart enough to have time for creative extracurriculars. What you need to be doing is working harder at school.” Plus, the institutionalized nature of drawing felt restrictive. In contrast, Hip-Hop thrived outside institutions. It didn’t ask for permission—it just was what it was.
During this time, my older brother had already started to rap with his high school friends. My aspirations to record really bloomed when my brother would tell me about how his friends could record and make music on a home computer. I would day dream about making music and drum up little stories in my head. There was hope. I could create my own music and distribute it. But I still didn’t have any models to follow. I was the antithesis of what my brother was—the schemes of a non-academically-nerdy first-gen Dominican kid growing up in the South Bronx.
By then, I began to study. VH1 had some programs about music history. I began to learn about rap artists and their influences. Nas brought me to Rakim and Slick Rick. And so I began to study, in my own way, the Black American artistic traditions.
Nas opened the door with his 2002 single, “I Can.” I remember sitting in Music class in 5th grade, learning about classical music, when I heard the song for the first time. The production mesmerized me—classical samples layered over boom bap bars. But Nas’ lyrics truly reshaped my worldview. He revealed a history that predated America and showed me that my identity as a Bronx youth wasn’t confined by genre. But more importantly, he said children, my generation was charged with changing things for the better (mind you, Bush Junior was president).
Be, be-fore we came to this country/
We were kings and queens, never porch monkeys/
…
Nobody says you have to be gangstas, hoes/
Read more, learn more, change the globe/
Ghetto children, do your thing/
Nas “I Know I Can”
Black music helped me develop a sense of Black consciousness, and rap introduced me to The Diaspora. Hip-Hop became my gateway into universal dharma and sangha, revealing the interdependent nature of things. Also to sampling and universal artistic expression. Even so, I struggled to find an archetype that fit my nerdy, intellectual interests while respecting and admiring women.
The Native Tongues collective--specifically A Tribe Called Quest--gave me glimpses of what I could become. “Electric Relaxation” resonated with me, not only for its poetic language but also for its tasteful and playful representation of Black intellect and sexuality. Illmatic introduced me to the deep poetics and genius of the kid on the corner. Despite this, I grappled with identity and masculine performance. At the time, A Tribe Called Quest represented the past, while BET Uncut, Nelly, Diddy, Dre, G-Unit, and Roc-A-Fella shaped the present. I needed to carve out my own vision of masculinity, and I continue to work on it today.
I started experimenting with eJay, a music production program my brother’s high school friends gave him. At first, I thought I might produce beats instead of rapping because I didn’t fit the stereotypical rapper image. But by sixth grade, I had already started writing poetry, and I quickly realized rap was poetry—and I realized, “yo, I’m kinda nice with it.” I adopted the rap moniker “Mr. Mighty Mouse (MMM)” between the ages of 11 and 13. While my peers seemed to grow overnight, I remained short, with ambitions of a “five foot assassin with the roughneck business,” Phife Dawg.
At 14, I started working odd jobs. By 16, I took a job at Burger King with one goal: to buy a computer to make music. I created my first songs using Adobe Audition and produced beats on Reason, a music production software. One of my earliest instrumental tracks sampled an old Superman cartoon titled The Mechanical Monsters. Beyond the vocal samples, everything else in the track was entirely my work.
Despite my struggles with identity and self-doubt, art pushed me to grow. It taught me self-awareness through sampling, reflection, and craft. Art expanded my sense of self, which is why I write rhymes and produce beats. Each project serves as a step in broadening my life experience.
That is why I write rhymes and make beats. To expand my life experience through sampling.
I didn’t have formal music training at the time—only an unrelenting desire to create. For my first post, I revisited this track. I paid for a professional to master the track as a gift to my younger self. Completing the track through the mastering process felt like a healing milestone in my journey. Thank you for bearing witness.
Present Day, What You Can Expect
Fast forward to 2024 and now I’ve been doing this kind of art for 22 years. Some breaks in between, but still me making art. Still with the goal of self exploration. Still bettering the collective through craft and courageously owning my means of production.
Today, I am a father, a husband, a songwriter, and a producer. I write rap lyrics and compose Hip-Hop music rooted in the legacy of racial slavery, Buddhist spirituality, progressive Afro-Diasporic movements, Hip-Hop culture, and Caribbean immigrant experiences.
I shape my sound by drawing inspiration from Hip-Hop’s golden era—the 90s through the early 2000s—while honoring R&B, disco, funk, jazz, and synthesizing styles. Artists like Q-Tip, People Under the Stairs, Nas, and Little Brother influence my style. As a producer, I pull from those traditions to create something uniquely mine.
Literary artist and thinkers that contribute to my inspiration: Toni Morrison, Octavia Butler, Junot Diaz, Ta Nehisi Coates, Laila Lalami, James Baldwin, Patrick Chamoiseau, Edwidge Danticat, Ida B Wells, and Frederick Douglass, just to name a few.
What I’ll Share Here:
My thoughts and experiences as an artist with the intention of exploring what it means to create. Sampling is central to my work, both as an audio tool and as a metaphor for spiritual interconnectedness. In my posts, I focus on:
I share lyrics, poems, and insights into my creative and spiritual processes.
Reflections and wisdom gained on the journey of artistic practice. Also, Project updates on what I’m working on and the commitments I’m pursuing in or outside of music.
If my work inspires you or sparks your interest, I invite you to subscribe or follow me. I keep this space free of paywalls and subscriptions—it’s just you and me connecting through art. You can support me by sharing my work, visiting my store, or treating me to a cup of tea.
With warm and loving gratitude,
and now Miguel
That track sent chills up my spine. Real nice.
Congrats! Enjoyed reading this. And Happy New Year! 🎆