A Peek Inside the Life of the Real Mrs. Kanye West

Mrs. Kanye West is having no problem blending in here, on Eighth outside of the Port Authority, which sounds patently ridiculous until one realizes that her work ID lanyard is dangling nonchalantly and indeed, when compared to her striking complexion or pink and black outfit, is hardly even noticeable at all, much less drawing attention to the famous name on it, as a breast borne classical name tag sticker the likes of which dot first day orientations and conventions all across fly over America would be wont to do; Hello, My Name is the American Mozart, King-Hell Inventor of Luxury Rap, Voice of a Generation, Possessor of a Jovian ego fragile as Faberge and the most polarizing pop star of our times … but she is sans any such tag and wearing tights, hiding the massive "Kanye" tattoo spanning her admittedly shapely posterior, and as such, becomes just another person in the whirling milieu of Midtown in mid-afternoon.

The idea of Mrs. Kanye West disappearing into a crowd is almost as ridiculous as it would be if applied to her namesake for those familiar with her. A street performer whose performances on Chicago's Jackson Blue Line platform, and on local TV, have lent her a cult status of sorts, West has as of late been making a name for herself here, as well, beginning with an amplifier through an Office Depot window on Broadway that made the Post--"I was upset because, for the whole summer, I was trying to save to move [to New York], and no matter what, if it wasn't raining it was too much for the permit or it was bills," she says, ticking off the mounting frustrations that were ignited when the amplifier's battery had died--and a brief appearance, in full bridal gown splendor, on BET's 106 and Park. It is with that born performer's presence that she goes about the task of not blending in, something that is a daunting proposition when thousands upon thousands of other people have the same idea as you.

West stalks Fulton Street Mall like a panther, carrying herself every bit like the star she wishes to be, like a woman who, if she has not quite yet made it, is at least on a better path, with the freshly minted paycheck from her first day job in almost a decade to prove it, and out here in Brooklyn she finds her audience. She is a ball of energy, fast talking, electric, and prone to quick outbursts and fidgets, of the non-threatening variety. Simply put, it is plain to see that there is quite a bit moving and vibrating inside her mind, that she is capable of great motion; she gives off the air of a coiled cobra, albeit a friendly one, the same kind of kinetic potential. She shifts rapidly from bubbly to serious to unhinged to normal, often times in the same sentence. Passerby take notice of her, and she interacts with people on the street as if she was holding her microphone. Most seem receptive to her peculiar aura, some more so than others. We stop for Chinese food, and a gentleman slips into the seat next to her and offers her his number. "I told him before you were here to interview me," she says, laughing. "What would you have done if we had been on a date?" It is not the first or last question she asks me about how I perceive her; she asks about the friend who had first told me about her back in Chicago, if I had seen her various videos and TV shows and how I felt about her shooting and editing skills. In these moments she seems less quirky individual and more calculated personality.

Ricocheting down Fulton, to Danice and Pretty Girl and the beauty supply store, West gains momentum like a snowball down a hill, one rolling towards an inevitable night out at the 40/40 Club. More so than just a chance to get out and let herself go, her burning desire to hit the scene this night is indicative of something else entirely. For the first time in years, Kanye West, borrowed name aside, is a woman living for herself.

Before she was Kanye West, was Linda Resa. "I was born in Chicago by an unknown mother and an unknown father," she says. "I was raised in DCFS [the Department of Children and Family Services] … I was raised by one person until I was nine, when she said I was too hard to handle. I gave her a hard time, and I realized, as I got older, it was because she wasn't affectionate. She was a tell-you-what-to-do mom, and I needed somebody who would be more than that."

West recalls running away from a group home and finding shelter at WGCI, a Chicago hip-hop station. "I told them I had ran away because I wanted to sing," she says. From here West's story takes a somewhat more traditional star seeking route, as she recalls singing in Harry Caray's restaurants and at Bears games, and filming  city access TV shows at the age of 13.

It is when she met West that her story begins to take on its most interesting shades. As she talks about her namesake, she shifts from worshipful tones to possible delusions, at one moment treating the real West as an untouchable idol, and the next a personal friend, swinging from slightly-above-the-norm detached admiration, to life intwining intimacy, and it is nearly impossible to tell fact from confabulation, although it is fact that a Linda is featured prominently in West's verse on "Out the Game."

Mrs. West met Kanye at the Harold Washington Cultural Center, where she says he praised her singing abilities. "I met Kanye West in 2005, and I sang to him," she recalls, her face glowing and glazing with the memory. "And he gave me this amazing response. He thought that I was spectacular, that I should be a star, and everything he said went to my head. Because the only thing I wanted at that point, leaving a domestic violence marriage, that was my dream to come true. That's all I wanted. I was currently singing on Jackson--that was my second year street performing--so I was very popular in Chicago from doing that."

Those encouraging words began Mrs. West's entanglement. "When he said that, oh my God. For me, he was my door opener. He was a big hip-hop producer in the industry and all of that."

"You want to know what lead up to the name change and all of that," she says, more statement than question. "To make a long story short, when we first started talking, I thought in my mind that, if he was giving me attention, it was because he wanted me to be his girlfriend … I thought he was going to be there for my career, be there for me as his woman … that's what I thought. And then here comes this girl that he announces as  having their one year anniversary and all that. So as the years went by, I kept trying to prove to him … that I didn't have no other boys in my life, that I was better than all those girls."

It was at that time that Linda Resa died and Mrs. Kanye West was truly born. More than just the name change, West was living her in life in a desperate attempt to fulfill an unrequited love. "I was just basically trying to show him that I cared about him. And nobody knew but me and him." After West broke up with Amber Rose, Mrs. West saw her chance. "That's when I said, not this time," she says. "I'm going to be the one for him. So, when that was done, that's when I said that I was going to make a scene about it. I was going to make a media thing. So, I was basically trying to tell everybody, and out loud, that I was crazier than any other girl for him."

She started a blog and created a documentary, of sorts, in part to help enhance West's image after the Taylor Swift incident. Inspired by his single status, she tattooed his name on her arm, and came to the lightning bolt realization of adopting Mrs. Kanye West as her stage name. This marked a distinct change from her somewhat secretive love before, which she says she kept quiet due to West's privacy and her concern that people would constantly inquire about her finances. "If he knew me, why isn't he giving me money?," she posits. After a washing out in New York and a return to Chicago, she tried harder, tattooing his name again, this time across her ass. "He told me not to do it," she says. "Kanye did tell me not to do it. He said that later on in life, people change their minds about things, and that's a permanent thing to have happen. But I ended up getting his name tatted on my ass, and I showed it to him … and it got very viral. So from there, in January after that, we were talking every day. Every day. We still talk now, but not as much, because I've been kind of crazy about this Kim thing."

"This Kim thing" is what is indirectly responsible for our manic trip on Fulton and the current vibe of unbridled life and hints of paranoia currently emanating from Mrs. West. Responses and ripostes from Kardashian to her are evident in tweets and blog posts. "She's the bitch behind the rumors," she says, pantomiming the hand-to-mouth whispers of malicious intent. Mrs. West has been pushed too far, her great love's tensile strength tested, found, and exceeded. Mrs. West is her own woman again, slave no more to star crossed romances. "I felt like I did all I could do," she says. "He keeps picking hoes, then let him pick a hoe. I support everything he does in his career, but I don't really pursue him anymore … before people knew about the tattoo, there was much more to my tears and much more to my heart than all of that."

I am standing beneath an enormous lobster, thinking about David Foster Wallace and how good Klonopin tastes, and it is 3:30, which I feel quantifies Mrs. West's directions to meet her at 41st and Seventh at " around 3/4". I shoot her a text to let her know I am beneath the crustacean. In response, I receive a testy response implying that I should have waited for her to activate her phone (she is texting from some sort of app) so she could tell me when we would meet, with seven most likely being the earliest. I reply that I am only in the city until the next morning, and that I do not rightly know what having her phone being in working order has to do with seeing her perform. She responded as follows, adjusted for grammar and comprehension: "What you mean what matters my phone? Nigga I deal with a lot of you's who waist my time. I come first. You know what? Fuck the picture I'm busy."

At this point I am quite taken aback, never mind perturbed at taking the long trip from Forrest Hills for nothing. Mrs. West plays the victim, insisting I should have let her known I was in a rush--remember, she dictated that morning when and where we would meet--and that it was unfair to expect her to bend to my schedule. I take the long ride back to Queens, and receive two phone calls from Mrs. West since the day she left me with the lobster. She is apologetic in both, citing stress and a hang over as parts of her problem, and I nod and smile and tell her everything is going to be ok. After all, she is a woman newly of herself, living for herself, and who am I to stand in her way?

@BDavidZarley