Curtis Jackson, globally recognized as 50 Cent, is more than just a rap superstar; his story is deeply intertwined with the narrative of South Jamaica, Queens. To understand 50 Cent, we must understand South Jamaica – a neighborhood shaped by waves of Black American migration, scarred by violence, and surprisingly fertile ground for a unique blend of drug culture and musical innovation. His life story serves as a powerful link to this complex history, perhaps marking him as one of the last figures directly shaped by this specific era.
Curtis Jackson aka 50 Cent
Curtis Jackson, known worldwide as 50 Cent, photographed against an urban backdrop.
To truly grasp the answer to “Where Is 50 Cent From,” one must delve into the streets of South Jamaica, Queens. Imagine cycling through Rockaway Boulevard, as the author of the original piece did, passing West Indian eateries and Bangladeshi clothing stores. The search leads to 145-40, a seemingly unremarkable address. In 1998, this renovated building, now available for rent and indistinguishable from its neighbors, was a flophouse where a young Curtis Jackson faced a police search warrant. Across the street, a 99-cent store and the Tax Sister operate – ordinary businesses juxtaposed against an extraordinary past. Asking locals about 50 Cent’s arrest here elicits murmurs of recognition, a sense that his story is both distant and still present in the neighborhood’s fabric. The area, while seemingly calmer now, carries echoes of a more turbulent time.
Venturing further to 135th Avenue and Guy R. Brewer Boulevard, the heart of 50 Cent’s lyrical landscape emerges. Across from Rochdale Village, apartment buildings that could easily be mistaken for public housing projects, this is the block immortalized in his rhymes. His autobiography, From Pieces To Weight: Once Upon A Time In Southside Queens, vividly recalls his return to “the strip” on Guy R. Brewer Boulevard after drug rehabilitation. The defiant energy of his mixtape Guess Who’s Back, released in 2001 after surviving nine gunshots and record label abandonment, resonates with the line: “in six months, I sold a million gold tops [crack] on Guy Brew.” While today the street scene is quieter – high school girls slap boxing, chess players gathered on the curb, the absence of visible drug activity – the echoes of the past are palpable. The vibrancy, or perhaps notoriety, of the 90s has faded, leaving behind a changed, yet still historically charged, South Jamaica.
From Boo-Boo to 50 Cent: The Making of an Icon
Before Curtis Jackson III became 50 Cent, the multi-platinum selling artist, he was simply Boo-Boo. Born in 1975, his mother Sabrina, known as Brina, was only fifteen. Brina supported them by selling drugs from her apartment on Old South Road in South Jamaica. Tragedy struck when Brina was murdered at just twenty-three, leaving Boo-Boo to be raised by his grandparents. The stark reality of his mother’s absence was explained with simple, heartbreaking finality: she wouldn’t be coming home.
A former flophouse where 50 was arrested in a raid.
The exterior of a renovated building in South Jamaica, formerly a flophouse, highlighting its mundane appearance despite its significant past.
Growing up in a crowded household, young Curtis often felt overlooked. He recounts in his autobiography feeling deprived, with torn sneakers and dirty clothes. Weekend parties exposed him to the drug trade firsthand, as drunken uncles would send the eleven-year-old Boo-Boo to fetch “Fat Alberts” – cocaine in tinfoil. Surrounded by drugs and seeking attention, he began secretly selling cocaine to his own uncles.
The landscape of South Jamaica shifted dramatically in 1988 with the murder of rookie policeman Edward Byrne. The killing, which occurred in South Jamaica while Byrne guarded a witness, became a national sensation. The police response was immediate and intense, targeting Fat Cat, the notorious local Godfather, and his associates. The open-air drug markets were temporarily shut down, forcing hustlers to adapt. Curtis witnessed this evolution, observing how drug sales became more sophisticated and strategic. He internalized these lessons, realizing that police pressure was paradoxically “cooking up new hustlers,” including himself. This period marked the beginning of his deeper involvement in the drug trade, eventually allowing him to acquire a motorcycle and then a car, making dealing seem like a viable, albeit dangerous, career path.
By nineteen, the consequences of his choices began to materialize. Two arrests for crack sales in quick succession served as harsh wake-up calls. Adding to this turmoil, his grandmother revealed the truth about his mother’s murder. Shortly after, his girlfriend became pregnant. The realization that he could follow his mother’s path, succumbing to the streets and leaving his child unprotected, prompted a critical turning point. He decided he wanted to be present in his child’s life. Inspired by the success of hustler-turned-rapper Notorious B.I.G., Jackson saw rap as his escape. Adopting the moniker 50 Cent, borrowed from a deceased Brooklyn stick-up artist known for his brazenness, he sought guidance from Queens hip-hop legend Jam Master Jay. Jay mentored him, helping him structure his raw freestyles into полноценные songs. This mentorship led to a guest appearance on an Onyx record and ultimately a record deal with Sony, setting the stage for his explosive entry into the music industry.
The Gunshots and the “Ghetto Qu’ran”
50 Cent’s initial foray into the music scene was marked by controversy and bold self-promotion. His first solo release, “How To Rob,” was a provocative and darkly humorous track where he rapped about robbing established rappers. Other songs followed, including the now-infamous “Ghetto Qu’ran.” His music was gaining traction, seemingly validating his chosen path. However, he underestimated the dangers of a public persona built on such audaciousness.
On May 24, 2000, while sitting in a car in front of his grandmother’s house, 50 Cent was ambushed. A stranger approached and opened fire at close range, hitting him nine times. Miraculously, Jackson managed to drive himself to Jamaica Hospital, narrowly escaping death. The bullets left lasting physical scars: one shot knocked out a tooth, another lodged in his hip, leaving him with a permanent slur and limp.
Media speculation immediately linked the shooting to “How To Rob,” suggesting retaliation from rappers like Wu-Tang Clan and Big Pun, who had publicly responded with threats. However, in his autobiography, 50 Cent downplayed this connection, hinting that the shooting was rooted in his past drug dealing activities. Ethan Brown, in his definitive study Queens Reigns Supreme: Fat Cat, 50 Cent and the Rise of the Hip-Hop Hustler, argues that “Ghetto Qu’ran” was the real catalyst. In this track, 50 Cent fearlessly exposed the South Jamaica cocaine underworld of his childhood, naming names and offering a raw, unfiltered account of the streets.
Today, the remnants of that dangerous underworld are more subdued. South Road and 150th Street at night still see the presence of prostitutes. Daylight reveals blocks of shuttered businesses, including a neglected funeral home. Areas like Sutphin Boulevard and 116th Avenue, with their ranch-style houses and quiet streets, present a stark contrast to the violent past. Towering housing projects, monitored by police cameras, stand as silent witnesses. If drug trafficking persists, it is largely hidden, moved indoors, away from the overt street trade of previous decades.
The Supreme Team, Fat Cat, and a Neighborhood’s History
In 50 Cent’s formative years, New York City was grappling with intense, unchecked violence. South Jamaica was home to the Supreme Team, one of the most ruthless and financially powerful gangs of the era. Drugs and guns were openly prevalent, and millions of dollars flowed through the neighborhood. The now-desolate two-story building on 150th Street served as headquarters for Lorenzo “Fat Cat” Nicholas, the Godfather of South Jamaica. His mother allegedly oversaw operations there, managing vast quantities of heroin and cocaine. Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff, or ‘Preme, led the Supreme Team’s street operations, controlling crack distribution in Baisley Housing Projects and other developments across Queens, including Queensbridge Houses. 50 Cent’s mother, Brina, operated her independent drug sales near Fat Cat’s base, a decision that, in retrospect, might have been both brave and ultimately fatal.
The Supreme Team was notorious for its brutality, responsible for numerous murders of rivals, disloyal members, and even suppliers, including the gruesome bludgeoning of four Colombian suppliers within Baisley. Their operations were characterized by a lack of discretion, leading to the eventual downfall of Fat Cat, arrested at his headquarters surrounded by weapons, and Supreme, caught at his stash house on 116th Avenue attempting to dispose of cocaine.
Former Supreme Team safe house on 116th Avenue.
A modest house on 116th Avenue, once a safe house for the Supreme Team, now showing signs of age and quiet suburban life.
The arrests of Fat Cat and ‘Preme marked the beginning of the Supreme Team’s decline. However, their legacy of swagger, wealth, and power deeply influenced a generation of Black youth in South Jamaica, many of whom were children of parents who had migrated from the South seeking better opportunities in New York. Nasir Jones, or Nas, the iconic rapper from Queensbridge Houses, is a product of this generation. His lyrics on “Memory Lane” from his debut album Illmatic reflect this era:
I hung around the older crews while they sling smack to dingbats
They spoke of Fat Cat/ that nigga’s name made bell rings, black
Some fiends scream/ about Supreme Team/ a Jamaica Queens thing
Uptown was Alpo, son/ heard he was kingpin, yo.
However, it was 50 Cent, perhaps due to his deep South Jamaica roots and his mother’s connection to the drug trade, whose career became most entangled with the legacy of the 1980s cocaine era. As a teenager, he trained at a gym run by Black Just, a Supreme Team member, and witnessed the crew’s control over Baisley, near his own drug dealing territory. By this time, Supreme was already incarcerated, and his violent nephew, Gerald “Prince” Miller, had taken over. Years later, 50 Cent chronicled these experiences in “Ghetto Qu’ran,” rapping:
When you hear talk of the Southside you hear talk of the team/
See niggas feared Prince and respected ‘Preme/
For you slow motherfuckers Imma break it down iller/
see ‘Preme was the businessman and Prince was the killer.
Upon his release from prison, Supreme aligned himself with Murder Inc., 50 Cent’s music rivals. Feeling that 50 Cent’s lyrics tarnished his image, it’s been alleged that Supreme ordered the attempt on 50 Cent’s life. Prodigy of Mobb Deep, in his autobiography My Infamous Life, states unequivocally, “Preme…got 50 shot up,” adding a dismissive “fuck Supreme.”
The definitive truth remains elusive, even with Ethan Brown’s meticulous research in Queens Reigns Supreme. 50 Cent himself dismissed Brown’s work, claiming the author lacked a true understanding of South Jamaica. Conflicting narratives and personal biases complicate the historical record.
South Jamaica and the Echoes of the Great Migration
The code of honor would persist and deeply influence all those who lived in Edgefield. Honor, along with violence, was part of the region’s heritage. —All God’s Children, Fox Butterfield
The conflict between 50 Cent and Supreme reflects a clash of eras in South Jamaica. During the Great Migration, African Americans moving to South Jamaica, described by Ethan Brown as a “lower class hell,” encountered limited opportunities in a racially and economically marginalized area. While some early migrants found city jobs, like the parents of ‘Preme and Fat Cat who worked for the MTA, many were driven to the drug trade by the early 1980s. After fifteen years, this destructive cycle of community exploitation reached its limit. Simultaneously, the rap industry matured, with Queens-based groups like Lost Boyz, Mobb Deep, and Capone-n-Noreaga drawing inspiration from the stories and tragedies of the cocaine era.
Queens served as a secondary destination for Southern migrants. According to Professor Josh Guild, migrants from states like Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia initially settled in Harlem and central Brooklyn. As those areas became overcrowded or families gained resources, they moved to Queens and Long Island seeking more space. However, South Jamaica differed from more affluent areas like Hollis or Long Island, offering less upward mobility.
While hip-hop culture often obscured the Southern roots of its pioneers, adopting modern aesthetics, South Jamaica retained a strong migrant character. Small, often storefront churches and restaurants serving “South Carolina style” food still dot Sutphin Boulevard. 50 Cent himself incorporated Southern slang and drawl into his speech, acknowledging his grandmother’s South Carolina roots in his VH1 special “The Origin of Me”: “When I be talking sometime I use South Carolina slang… I get that from you.”
Even the urban violence of the 1980s in South Jamaica had echoes of the violence of the 19th-century South. Fox Butterfield’s All God’s Children traces the lineage of Willie Bosket, considered New York’s most violent prisoner, back to Edgefield, South Carolina, a region known as “bloody Edgefield” for its high rates of white-on-white violence and later, racial terror against Black Americans. Bosket’s ancestors, originally victims of this violence, adopted a culture of armed self-defense that persisted through generations. This historical context adds depth to understanding the violence that permeated South Jamaica.
The connection is further solidified by the fact that Fat Cat and his enforcer Pappy Mason were born in Alabama. In “The Origin of Me,” 50 Cent travels to Edgefield, South Carolina, his ancestral home, the same town studied by Butterfield, highlighting the deep and often overlooked Southern roots of South Jamaica’s complex social fabric.
The conflict between 50 Cent and Supreme represented a struggle for control in a changing economy, a transition from the old guard of drug kingpins to the new power of storytellers. 50 Cent, in many ways, embodies this transition – a living link to the era of Black American migration to South Jamaica, the violence it endured, and the unlikely fusion of drugs and music that emerged. He might very well be the last of his kind.
The Last Link and a Changing South Jamaica
Returning home on Guy R. Brewer Boulevard, the author observes a noticeable shift in South Jamaica’s demographics. New storefronts reflect a growing continental African, Jamaican, Latino, and Guyanese presence. African American families, the descendants of those who migrated from the South, are increasingly moving away, seeking opportunities elsewhere due to rising costs, stagnation, and persistent police harassment.
A corner storefront in South Jamaica, its weathered facade symbolizing the neighborhood’s evolving character and the fading echoes of its past.
50 Cent himself “made it out,” residing in a Connecticut mansion once owned by Mike Tyson. His near-death experience and sharp sense of humor, combined with his partnership with Eminem, forged a compelling narrative that resonated with millions. His success story is all the more remarkable considering the harsh realities of his South Jamaica upbringing.
Stopping one last time on 150th Street, across from Fat Cat’s former headquarters, the author reflects on the past. The shuttered building stands as a silent monument. Imagining the scene in 1985 – addicts and dealers in period attire, Fat Cat’s mother leaving for home, Pappy Mason on guard – provides a vivid glimpse into the world Boo-Boo navigated on his way to Brina’s apartment.
For a moment, the intense reality that shaped 50 Cent’s music and persona becomes palpable. But South Jamaica has changed, and so has hip-hop. The 2007 life sentence of Kenneth “Supreme” McGriff for the murder of rapper Eric “E Money Bags” Smith marked a symbolic end to the violent intersection of cocaine and hip-hop in Queens.
The future of South Jamaica’s musical voice may lie with the children of immigrants, like Nicki Minaj (Onika Maraj), whose family arrived from Trinidad in 1987. While her music embraces dance and reggae and steers clear of crime narratives, she fiercely represents her neighborhood: “grew up in Baisley/ South Jamaica, Queens and it’s crazy.”
As African American families leave Queens, the stories and styles of South Jamaica may find new expressions elsewhere. Waka Flocka Flame, an Atlanta-based rapper born in Queens in 1986, reminds listeners of his South Jamaica roots: “Y’all know ya’ll my kin folk…back down to Baisley projects” he raps to 50 Cent in “Keep It Real.” His uncle, Bimmy, was a former lieutenant in the Supreme Team, further cementing these connections.
In “Ghetto Qu’ran,” 50 Cent’s opening rhetorical question, “What y’all niggas know about the dirty South?” serves as an introduction to a subaltern history of South Jamaica. He names names, recounts betrayals and acts of heroism, and reveals his deep awareness of his Southern roots, his proximity to the Supreme Team, and his improbable rise in hip-hop. This imbues his music and writing with a significance that transcends commercial success. Even as South Jamaica evolves, 50 Cent’s poetry and memories will remain a crucial reference point for understanding its complex history.
Standing before Fat Cat’s dormant headquarters, immersed in the weight of forgotten history, the lyrics from “Many Men” resonate deeply:
I’m the diamond in the dirt/ and I ain’t been found
I’m the underground king/and I ain’t been crowned
When I rhyme/ something special happen every time.
Through his powerful rhymes, 50 Cent has illuminated the “dirty South” of South Jamaica, revealing the intricate forces at play, the stories of both failure and triumph within this crucible of American life. His origins in South Jamaica are not just a biographical detail; they are the foundation of his identity and his art.
Read more on Open City: Queens Stand Up: The Essential Reading Guide on Hip-Hop’s Forgotten Borough
