On the Come Up follows a sixteen-year-old aspiring rapper named Bri. As a strong-willed African American girl at a predominately white arts magnet school, Bri often feels like her identity isn't entirely in her control—she often finds herself in the school office for being "aggressive" or "confrontational," earning her a reputation on campus and among teachers as a troublemaker. Outside of school, Bri's identity is also determined for her, but in a different way: her deceased father was the rising rap star Lawless, a local hero. Because of this, Bri is often referred to as "Li'l Law" and given opportunities to perform her own raps based on her father’s reputation. However, as these identities converge on Bri and begin to stifle her and control her life, Bri realizes that what she wants most is the opportunity to shape her own identity and come of age on her own terms, without being bound by other people's ideas about who she is. Through the example of Bri, Thomas suggests that crafting one's own unique identity is a crucial part of coming of age.
Bri finds herself in an odd situation when it comes to her dad, Lawless, as she was only four when he died and therefore doesn't remember him. Nonetheless, Bri idolizes her dad's memory and, at least at first, enjoys it when people around town treat her like "royalty" because of her association with him. From the beginning, however, Bri finds her association with Lawless somewhat difficult to handle, as it reminds her that she's the only person who doesn't remember him. When she first goes to the Ring, the local boxing place that holds rap battles, Bri even begins to get annoyed by the nickname Li'l Law and the suggestion that she's "carrying the torch" for her dad—as far as she's concerned, she's there to carry her own torch and make a name for herself, not just to keep Lawless's memory alive. This experience impresses upon Bri that for her, coming of age will mean reconciling the positive and negative sides of her connection with her father.
Thomas explores Bri's relationship with Lawless through the symbol of his chain. The chain is the most valuable thing that Bri's family owns, and Bri sees it as a reminder that she can succeed in the rap world just like her dad was poised to do—plus, it's an insurance policy if she doesn't succeed, as selling it would solve some of her family's financial troubles. Bri begins wearing the chain and out and about after she receives it for Christmas, but not long after, the Crown—a member of the gang that killed Lawless—holds her at gunpoint and steals it. The chain forces Bri to confront the reality that identifying so closely with her dad brings its own set of dangers, even if it can also bring comfort.
Though Bri's primary issue of identity is the one that stems from her relationship to her father, other forces beyond her control also influence how people see her. At school, she discovers that her older brother Trey's immense academic success means that, to many of her teachers, Bri is a bit of a disappointment: she's not as involved, popular, or academically talented as Trey was. Even worse, Bri is also caught up in the racial tensions and stereotypes prevalent in her community. At one point, Bri is assaulted by school security guards for refusing to allow them to search her backpack. The real reason that she wouldn't let the guards look in her backpack is that she was selling candy against school rules, but because of Bri's race and reputation as a troublemaker, rumors spread that Bri was actually selling drugs. The racial tensions at Midtown School of the Arts cause the rumor to quickly gain traction: many of Bri's classmates (who are mostly white) believe the rumor, as do white parents, who are concerned that the black kids being bused in for grant money might bring drugs and violence into the white neighborhood. Bri begins to realize that in all of these cases, other people dehumanize her based on their assumptions about her identity. That is, they don't view her as a real human at all; instead, they define her in simplistic terms based on her family, race, and community. Put another way, people flatten Bri into just being Lawless's daughter, Trey's sister, or a black Garden Heights resident—all of which are parts of her identity, but none of which defines Bri as a unique individual.
Though Bri initially tries to keep what happened to her dad's chain a secret, when the truth comes out, Bri begins to see the importance of crafting an identity for herself that is truly her own and isn't based on who other people say she is. To this end, she uses an appearance at the Ring to fire Supreme, her almost-manager, through an unscheduled freestyle. In her freestyle, Bri insists that people recognize her as Bri, not Li'l Law, and declares that she won't put up with others' assumptions about her. While Bri's age means that she still has a ways to go in terms of coming of age and developing her own identity, this is a formative moment for her. It suggests that for her, the most important element of the coming-of-age battle is recognizing—and rebelling against—the ways that her relationships and others' perceptions shape her identity. With this, the novel suggests to readers that there's nothing wrong with drawing on relationships and communities for support, it's freeing and often necessary to take personal responsibility for declaring one's own identity.
Identity and Individuality ThemeTracker
Identity and Individuality Quotes in On the Come Up
Mrs. Murray's expression softens. "Following your dad's footsteps, huh?"
It's weird. Whenever other people mention him, it's like they're confirming that he's not some imaginary person I only remember bits and pieces of. And when they call him my dad and not Lawless, the underground rap legend, it's like they're reminding me that I'm his and he's mine.
"Carrying the torch for Law, huh?"
Not really. More like making my own torch and carrying it. I say, "Yeah," though, because that's what I'm supposed to say. It's part of being royalty.
He graduated with honors. Worked his ass off to get there in the first place, only to have to come back to the hood and work in a pizza shop.
It's bullshit, and it scares me, because if Trey can't make it by doing everything "right," who can?
Sometimes she babies me, like it's her way of making up for when she wasn't around. I let her do it, too. I wonder though if she only sees me as her baby girl who used to snuggle up with her until I fell asleep. I don't know if the snuggles are for who I am now.
This time, I think the snuggles are for her.
I mean...I don't think she is.
For one, eight years is a hell of a long time to be clean. Two, Jay wouldn't go back to all of that. She knows how much it messed us up. She wouldn't put me and Trey through that again.
But.
She put us through it in the first place.
I almost roll my eyes. How would these people feel if they knew Milez was here to see how messed up we are to remind him how good he's got it? He's gonna go to his nice house in the suburbs and forget this in a week, tops, while we're still struggling.
My situation shouldn't be his after-school special.
There I am, on the front page of Blackout. They posted a picture from when I was in the Ring. The headline? "Teen Daughter of Murdered Underground Rap Legend Lawless Just Killed Us Her Damn Self with This New Heat!"
Side note: Do I have a name or nah? It's short enough that it could've fit, too.
"You know who the biggest consumers of hip-hop are?"
"White kids in the suburbs," Miles answers dryly, as if he's heard this before.
"Exactly! White kids in the suburbs," Supreme says. "You know what white kids in the suburbs love? Listening to shit that scares their parents. You scare the hell outta their folks, they'll flock to you like birds. The videos from tonight? Gonna scare the hell outta them. Watch your numbers shoot up."
It actually makes sense that white kids in the suburbs will love the videos. But Long and Tate called me a "hoodlum," and I can't seem to shake that word.
"But," he says, in a way that tells me to wipe the smile off my face, "although I get the song, now people are gonna take your words at face value. And let's be real: You're clueless about half the shit you rapped about. Clips on your hips?" Trey twists his mouth. "You know damn well you don't know what a clip is, Bri."
"Yes I do!" It's the thingy that goes on the thingy on a gun.
She's still not listening to me. "If you would just listen to the song—it's not what they made it out to be, I swear. It's about playing into their assumptions about me."
"You don't get that luxury, Brianna! We don't! They never think we're just playing!"
"That's right, fuck censorship," I say, to three hundred viewers. "They don't get it because it ain't for them to get. Besides, if I am strapped like backpacks, maybe it's 'cause I gotta be, bitch. Ain't my fault if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable every goddamn day of my life."
It's like having a bucket of ice water thrown into my face.
Ratchet hood rat.
Thousands of people just heard me act like that. Millions more may see the video. They won't care that my life is a mess and I had every right to be mad. They'll just see an angry black girl from the ghetto, acting like they expected me to act.
Supreme laughs to himself. "You played the role," he says. "Goddamn, you played the role."
Problem is, I wasn't playing. That's what I've become.
"Do you know what your aunt's biggest problem is?"
I look at the jailhouse. That's kinda obvious at the moment. "She's locked up."
"No. That's not even her biggest problem," says Jay. "Pooh doesn't know who she is, and by not knowing who she is, she doesn't know her worth. So, who are you?"
"What?"
"I'm done being who my dad wants me to be," Miles says. "It's not worth it."
Does he mean what I think he means? "You're giving up your rap career?"
Miles slowly nods. "Yeah. I am. Besides, is it really mine if I'm not being myself?
"But I believe she's smarter than that," he says. "Don't you?"
"I know she is."
"Can you act like it then?" I ask, and my voice is super soft. "It's not like anybody else does."
This look of surprise quickly appears in my mom's eyes. Slowly, it's replaced by sadness and, soon, realization.