The beat drops, and with it, memories flood my brain. Standing in my projects watching Brand Nubian shoot their video, I didn't just see artists – I saw architects of culture. The concrete was our foundation, the street lights our spotlight, and the energy in the air was electric. This was history being written in real-time.
The Birth (1973-1979): "Block Party Prophecies"
The era when pioneers laid the foundation with nothing but turntables, determination, and makeshift sound systems in the Bronx. When Kool Herc's sister Cindy made party flyers and Afrika Bambaataa turned gang members into b-boys.
In the summer heat of 1970s Bronx, hip-hop was born from necessity – the need to be heard, to create something from nothing, to make the world stop and listen. DJ Kool Herc didn't know he was birthing a movement when he extended those breaks; he was just trying to keep the party going. But that's how movements start – not with grand plans, but with pure intention.
The Golden Dawn (1980-1988): "Straight From The Basement"
When Run-DMC rocked shell-toes, Beastie Boys crashed suburban walls, and Rakim changed the lyrical game forever. Hip-hop moved from park jams to platinum plaques, but kept its soul intact.

The 1980s kicked in the door wearing shell-toes and leather jackets. Run-DMC were breaking down barriers between rock and rap, between the streets and the suburbs. The game was changing, and the change was happening at lightning speed. Every borough had its sound, every block had its stars, and every kid with a pen and pad thought they could be next.
The Dynasty Years (1993-1997): "Crystallized Streets"
Nas painted Queensbridge in vivid detail, Wu-Tang built an empire, and Mobb Deep's darkness illuminated truth. The era when street journalism became high art and every borough had its kings.
This was when hip-hop was literature on wax. Nas dropped "Illmatic," and it was like Shakespeare had been reborn in Queensbridge. Wu-Tang showed us how to turn street knowledge into an empire, and Mobb Deep's "Shook Ones Pt. II" became the soundtrack to our ambitions.
The East Coast-West Coast tension was about ideology, about different approaches to the same hustle. Being in California working with Lil Kim during her second album, I saw how the culture could bridge those gaps. The coast didn't matter as much as the content.

When Nas dropped "Ether," it wasn't just a diss track – it was a moment that showed us how words could shift power dynamics. The battle with Jay-Z was about how we define legacy in hip-hop. Both ended up winning by showing us different paths to greatness.
The Wire Age (2003-2008): "Trap Symphonies"
Southern innovation rewrote the rules while the streets watched The Wire and saw themselves. When T.I., Jeezy, and Gucci Mane made the trap a global phenomenon.

The mid-2000s brought a digital revolution that changed everything. The same way we used to pass tapes hand to hand, files now moved through invisible networks. Southern hip-hop rose to dominance, proving that the game wasn't owned by any one region. The hustle went digital, but the principles remained the same: authenticity, innovation, and the power of storytelling.
The Blog Era (2008-2015): "Digital Graffiti"
When mixtapes went virtual, careers were made on DatPiff, and Drake blurred the lines between rap and R&B. The moment hip-hop realized the internet was its new street corner.
By the 2010s, streaming had changed the economy of the game. Artists who once needed major labels could now reach millions from their bedrooms. The barriers were coming down, but the competition was fiercer than ever. Hip-hop wasn't just crossing genres; it was swallowing them whole.
The New Renaissance (2020-Present): "Virtual Cyphers"
The era when technology and tradition clash and collaborate.
Now, in 2024, we're watching AI try to replicate what can only come from the soul. TikTok has turned verses into viral moments, and NFTs are trying to reinvent ownership. But through all these changes, the essence remains: hip-hop is still about taking your reality and turning it into something powerful.

This evolution mirrors what I teach through CTG. When I stand on stage now, sharing the blueprint for transformation, I'm drawing from the same well that hip-hop drew from. It's about taking your story – every scar, every struggle, every success – and turning it into something that can change lives.
The culture taught us that transformation isn't about abandoning your roots; it's about growing them deeper and wider. From park jams to streaming platforms, from corner cyphers to corporate boardrooms, the game changed but the principles remained: stay true, stay innovative, stay hungry.
When I tell people "I didn't want to be a slave, I wanted to own my masters," I'm speaking the language hip-hop taught us – the language of ownership, of transformation, of writing your own rules. Whether you're holding a mic or running a company, the game is the same: either change it, or let it change you.
That's what CTG is about. Like hip-hop, we're taking the knowledge from the streets and turning it into universal wisdom. We're showing people how to flip their story from tragedy to triumph, how to transform their struggles into strength.
Because in the end, whether it's hip-hop or life, the greatest power lies in your ability to change the game while staying true to who you are. The question is: are you ready to write your verse?
For mor information about the CTG Movement please visit: www.tmjefferson.org or www.tmjbooks.com
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