Remembering The Wisdom Of Chief Keef's Granny, Margaret Carter

CHICAGO — About a decade ago, Chief Keef was Chicago's teenage public enemy No. 1.

The rapper was so despised and feared as a potential catalyst for street violence that then-Mayor Rahm Emanuel teamed with the mayor of Hammond, Indiana, to prevent Chief Keef from performing at a benefit concert — as a hologram.

The other day, I spotted a social media video of the once-notorious rapper.

Chief Keef was wearing a T-shirt that showed off his dad bod, standing near his new car: a Scooby-Doo-themed Lamborghini Urus "Mystery Machine." How "gangster" of him.

These days, Chief Keef's social media posts are filled with smiles. Cute messages accompany pictures of his kids. He promotes his music, his graffiti art and video games.

His life seems to be a far cry from the thuggish reputation built on his juvenile rap sheet including arrests for allegedly selling white heroin and pointing a pistol at police officers, who shot at him as he ran away. He spent time in juvenile jail for violating probation. In explicit lyrics, Chief Keef rapped about his affiliation with a faction of the Black Disciples that seemed to define him.

His Granny, Margaret Carter, told me back in 2012 — during the height of Chief Keef's notorious years — that the powerful politicians didn't know her grandson.

Sure, he got in trouble with a gun when he was kid. But that didn't define her "Little Keith."

What the world didn't know about the teenage rapper is that he didn't leave her house often. He spent too much time on the internet. Played his music too loud. He ate too much of the food in the refrigerator. And had too many girls visiting in his bedroom.

“Let’s be real, I’m always saying, ‘Cut that down, turn that off, that’s too loud’ when he’s doing all that music. And girls is his thing. Girls, girls, girls. I get sick of all them girls,” Carter told me back then.

She told me what her grandson needed was a box of condoms and for everybody to leave him alone. He was still just a kid, after all, rapping about what life is like growing up in Englewood, Chicago's most notorious neighborhood. He'd find his way.

Ten years later, I think Carter was right.

Sure, Chief Keef moved out of town and continued to get in trouble. He got caught at a Montana airport with marijuana edibles and received a suspended sentence. He was arrested for driving under the influence in Florida, pleaded guilty to a lesser charge and was given probation.

But let's put that in perspective: There's a guy running for Chicago mayor who was convicted of DUI — twice — who is campaigning while still serving a suspended sentence.

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As an adult, Margaret Carter's grandson hasn't been shot or been charged with shootings. Some of his closest Englewood rap contemporaries — including Lil Durk, who faces murder charges in Atlanta, and Lil Reese, who was shot in the neck with an AK-47 — can't say the same.

Carter died in March. Chief Keef published a tribute on social media that signaled he was listening to her during those tumultuous years when he brought Chicago drill rap out of the underground.

He apologized to Carter for "everything I took you through growing up" and expressed that he was so happy he was able to make her proud.

The thing I'll remember about Chief Keef's Granny, a working-class woman raising her daughter's son, is how she reminded me that even Chicago's most notorious teenagers aren't wreaking havoc all the time.

Sometimes, they're raiding the refrigerator with their friends, making too much noise or filming a video that launches rap music in a new direction.

It's easy to forget there's nuance to the life stories beyond the arrest records of young people, like the controversies that swirled around Chief Keef during his wild teenage years.

Or youth among those arrested for gun possession during a brawl on North Avenue Beach.

Or teenagers who were at the "chaotic gathering" of young people at Millennium Park that ended with the shooting death of 16-year-old Seandelle Holliday.

Redemption might not seem likely when tragic headlines are fresh, but there's still hope for kids living in poor, neglected neighborhoods plagued by violence who do bad things.

As unbelievable as it might sound, the life of the late Margaret Carter's rapping grandson is proof.

Mark Konkol, recipient of the 2011 Pulitzer Prize for local reporting, wrote and produced the Peabody Award-winning series "Time: The Kalief Browder Story." He was a producer, writer and narrator for the "Chicagoland" docuseries on CNN and a consulting producer on the Showtime documentary "16 Shots.

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