Tommy and Ralph started SanQuon; they just didn’t know it. I studied those two to the point my mom had to force me to wear something else. Nobody handled color like them. Such American grit. Tommy was bold, daring. Ralph was classic, vintage. I was whatever the day called for. 

 

By seventh grade I stopped just studying clothes and started making them. Rooted in the sights of the MARTA windows. Transfer slips and train winds. I wanted to be something in the Outkast home, my home. Riding down to Ponce for the summer art program. The city paid me for me first. Confidence grew as strangers peered over my shoulders, giving me dap as they looked at my little doodles 

 

“Silver Surfer, boy that’s fye”. 

 

It’s always been love even when access was denied. I still got a peek of it. Ahh God Club. I would have loved to design some merchandise for them. I was 11, they were closing. Bad timing. 

 

As I grew the core stayed the same, don’t chase, just create. SanQuon is the side of me that lives in the Atlanta summers. Center stage. Tuesday night is like the night before because every night is something to see. 

 

SanQuon is color, nerve, memory, and motion. A love letter written in the richest ink for the city that made me, me.