Harry Park: Beast's American Rapper

It Started with a freestyle

In the streets of Seoul stood a young man around eighteen years of age. He was exceptionally tall standing close to 6 feet. The young man was named Park Junwon, better known by his English name: Harry Park.

Although he was born here, he actually grew up in New York around Long Island. NYC being within drivable distance Harry got used to the big city life. It truly was the melting of culture. On one street would be Chinese neighborhood and the other, Caribbean. Truly it's amazing how people there live in harmony. It was this diversity that exposed Harry to music. He listened to everything Jazz, Soul, Alternative Rock, Techno you name it. But there was one genre that gravitated Harry and that was Hip Hop.

Maybe it's because of the way they carried themselves on stage. They always seem larger than life and the crowd would be enamored by them. From the greatests like Biggie Smalls, Nas, Wu Tang Clan, 50 Cent, and many more. Harry was never short on new experience. Hip Hop provided the escape he had from the bullying he suffered as an Asian Immigrant. It helped Harry learned English and for that's extremely grateful.

He was only six years old when he moved to America. It was rough in the beginning, but over time he developed his own identity. His first time rapping was in middle school when he freestyled a Jay Z track. At first people made fun of him for his corny style, but he soon sharpened his tongue and it was through that brought him to battle rap. Unlike most rappers who would excessively swear and constantly reference violence, Harry did none of that. He was still witty, just only using better vocabulary. The common mistake was people underestimated him and he would smoke them with a clever rebuttal.

Of course, his parents weren't always enthusiastic about his endeavors. They insisted it was a pointless career and he should insist on studying. Ah Asian parents... It took years to finally convince them to move here on the condition he was to attend a good university and that's what he did. Probably was he had little money, if barely at all. He was in a situation an eighteen-year-old should never have. He was going to have to look for a job and fast.

"I signed up for this. Better find a place to work." Harry said walking throughout Seoul.

He spent the next few weeks scouring for a job. Within an hour he realized how difficult it was actually was to find a decent job. Due to his limited Korean skills, he went from job to job to make some quick profit.

Thankfully he brought some books with in on Korean languages. On his free time, he would practice this on herself to get familiarized with the language. He wasn't too bad at speaking Korean but reading and writing was another thing. If he wanted to live, he needed to become fluent.

Fortunately, life has many things planned and he would get his first breakthrough in the middle of a freestyle session. He was in the middle of break and he was bored. With no costumers to serve he was free to do whatever he wanted. Rapping was just a way to pass the time.

"I wonder what career I should choose? I could be an engineer my dad wanted to. Math isn't too hard for me. Maybe a dentist? I've always wanted to check people's teeth... No maybe I should do software development. I hear those are in high demands. If I can get into a tech school I could get into a great school and maybe make boat loads of money from working on websites." Harry thought long and hard about his career choices. But then he remembered what he is rapping.

Whose world is this?
The world is yours, the world is yours
It's mine, it's mine, it's mine
Whose world is this?
I sip the Dom P, watching Gandhi 'til I'm charged
Then writing in my book of rhymes, all the words past the margin
To hold the mic I'm throbbin', mechanical movement
Understandable smooth hit that murderers move with
The thief's theme, play me at night, they won't act right
The fiend of hip-hop has got me stuck like a crack pipe
The mind activation, react like I'm facin' time like
Pappy Mason, with pens I'm embracin'
Wipe the sweat off my dome, spit the phlegm on the streets
Suede Timb's on my feets makes my cipher complete
Whether crusing in a Sikh's cab, or Montero Jeep
I can't call it, the beats make me fallin' asleep
I keep falling, but never falling six feet deep
I'm out for presidents to represent me (say what?)
I'm out for presidents to represent me (say what?)
I'm out for dead presidents to represent me
Music end