Umar Bin Hassan is one of the only surviving members of The Last Poets, a group of New York City-based artists whose revolutionary work helped bring awareness to the plight of Black people while simultaneously encouraging their community to be better.

With controversial titles such as “Wake Up N#ggers” and “White Man’s Got A God Complex,” their politically-charged tracks stirred up tough conversations and blazed a trail for conscious rappers to follow. In fact, The Last Poets—whose core members included Hassan, Abiodun Oyewole, Baba Donn Babatunde and the late Jalal Mansur Nuriddin—are widely considered among the first “rappers.” Their razor-sharp spoken words placed over jazzy, soul-laden rhythms inadvertently led to Hip-Hop groups like A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul and Common. Many of the ‘90s era MCs routinely paid homage to The Last Poets, with Nas and Common even featuring them on their albums. 

“Ghostface Killah and RZA [from the Wu-Tang Clan] will bow down when they see us,” Oyewole once told The Guardian. “People say we started rap and Hip-Hop, but what we really got going is poetry. We put poetry on blast.” 

That same modesty flows through Hassan’s veins. The doe-eyed Akron, Ohio native, whose kindness and humility is arguably unparalleled by any other living legend, doesn’t seem to fully grasp just how important he is to the Hip-Hop landscape. And if he does, there’s no trace of pretentiousness about it. The Last Poets have been sampled or quoted by Brand Nubian, Public Enemy, N.W.A, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, UGK, Meek Mill, X-ecutioners and Little Brother, to name a few. The Notorious B.I.G borrowed heavily from The Last Poets’ 1970 cut “When The Revolution Comes” for his 1993 single “Party and Bullshit,” further proof of the Poets’ enduring impact. 

But, like every artist, Hassan has an origin story that set him on the path to greatness. Up South In Akron: Summer of 1959, Hassan’s recently re-issued comic book, tells the tale of Hassan’s Akron upbringing in eight colorful pages. Edited by Def Jam Recordings’ first publicist/esteemed journalist Bill Adler, and illustrated by Nate McDonough with lettering by Ed Piskor and a layout from Sherri Locker, the comic was originally published in 2013 but was given another life when Music Arkives decided to revive it. 

Hassan began working at a very early age, shining shoes from the time he was 8 to 15 years old in an effort to take care of his family. His father, a musician, had an unpredictable income, which would often leave the young Hassan to pick up the slack. But, as illustrated in the comic, Hassan learned much more than he bargained for as the streets became his classroom. Prostitutes became like second mothers, drug dealers his security and white people his source of income. As a result, he knew he couldn’t get too mouthy when he was called a racial slur—they were his paying customers. 

“I was in business, you know,” he says. “I needed to go where there was dollars, so I couldn't get too stupid and be too stupid. I always know when people went too far, but I needed to make more money.”

Hassan recalls an incident that took place outside of the Green Turtle Cafe and Hotel involving one of the Akron Police Department’s only Black officers at the time, “Big J.” 

“One day in the summer of 1959 something happened that changed the way I looked at Big J and the Akron Police Dept,” he writes. “Two Black detectives were arguing with this white man in front of the Green Turtle Cafe and Hotel. The Green Turtle was the spot where the powers that be went to pick up their bag money for known criminal activity on the street.” 

The two Black officers were eventually able to slap some handcuffs on the white man but before they could haul him off to jail, two white officers pulled up, took off the handcuffs and drove away with the man in the back of their squad car. 

“And we all understood why Big J was so cruel and so callous for the rest of the night,” he concludes. “This was Akron, Ohio in the Fifties. This was America in the Fifties. No matter whether you were up South or down North, you were and always would be just another n#gger to them.” 

With such a powerful ending, it’s no wonder Hassan and the other members of The Last Poets evolved into revolutionary poets—someone needed to speak up. While Hassan’s idols have always been Malcom X and Martin Luther King Jr., he’s particularly grateful that Hip-Hop groups like Public Enemy picked up the torch in the 1980s. 

“I was quite happy [when they came out],” he says. “I didn't want other groups coming out using the n-word too much more. Some of them did. But [Public Enemy] understood we were talking about, just trying to get things better for our community. That’s why we became The Last Poets. We were just trying to wake people up to work on the condition of our community. We wanted them to try to come together—no matter if they were Christian, Jewish or whatever. We’re trying to make the community better for the younger ones that were coming up.” 

Hassan’s humility again shines through when he talks about what he wants from the comic’s re-issue. 

“I am [excited for more people to read my story],” he says. “It might lead to more gigs and or maybe more things that should have come our way a long time ago. If it happens like that, I’d be really happy. I’m lucky to still be here at my age, so I’m really happy just to be here.”