02/26/2026
For I just finished The Dirty Version by Buddha Monk and Mickey Hess and I’m sitting with how much of Russell Jones’ story was flattened by the media.
We’ve been handed a version of Ol’ Dirty Bastard that makes him the punchline.
The wild one.
The unstable one.
The cautionary tale.
This book pushes back on that. It slows the narrative down and asks who benefits when a Black man is labeled “crazy” instead of contextualized.
Reading about the history of Haldol in prisons and detention centers made my stomach turn not because it was shocking but because I know it tracks. Black resistance reframed as pathology. Anger reframed as disorder. Suspicion of systems that have historically harmed you reframed as paranoia. A 1974 psychiatry ad showing a Black man with a clenched fist under the caption “Assaultive and Belligerent? Cooperation often begins with Haldol.” That is not ancient history. That is infrastructure.
As a therapist, I am always thinking about how diagnoses land on Black bodies.
Who gets grace. Who gets surveillance. Who gets medicated into compliance. This book doesn’t romanticize ODB. It humanizes him. It complicates him. It reminds us that misdiagnosis is not accidental it lives at the intersection of race, power, and control.
For anyone who loves the Wu-Tang Clan, cares about medical racism, or wants a fuller story about a man whose genius was bigger than the caricature — this one matters.
This felt less like a memoir and more like testimony. And testimony, when we tell it right, interrupts the lie.
Save & share with an OBD fan!