In this article:
St. Louis on the hip-hop map
A baseball career dashed
The govenor's award

A battle for belonging
Back with a second CD, Nelly has proved he's no fluke. But for the hip-hop hero of St. Louis, success isn't about becoming a rap heavyweight. It's about earning the love of his community.

By Steven Chean

Nelly, aka Cornell Haynes Jr., has a new CD "Nellyville." (Photo: Universal Records)

Just two years ago, Nelly received not a single homemade cookie. Now, they don't stop coming. Plates upon plates of them, piled high, left at his doorstep with neighborly notes of endearment. "This is gonna sound dumb," he says, "but it's like ... love, y'know?"

They mean a lot to him. As does the flurry of family-reunion invitations ... from family he never knew he had. But he needs time to take it all in. After all, he only recently became St. Louis' hip-hop hero, who beat immeasurable odds with 2000's "Country Grammar", a multiplatinum collection of singsong rhymes, infectious hooks and bouncy beats. He's just getting used to being his governor's favorite son: Unlike countless hip-hop heavyweights who parlay their earnings into endorsements of booze-swilling and blunt-smoking, Nelly has invested in his hometown's future.

St. Louis on the hip-hop map
It's all the more remarkable considering those immeasurable odds: Before 2000, Nelly wasn't associated with a nationally known rap crew. He hadn't achieved notoriety by collaborating with popular artists. Fact is, in a culture traditionally shackled to the East and West coasts, he was adrift in the middle -- in "the Lou," a city known for Chuck Berry, Budweiser and baseball. "St. Louis has a long, prestigious musical history," says "Vibe" magazine music editor Shani Saxon, "but there were no successful rappers out of there until Nelly came along. He is solely responsible for putting St. Louis on the hip-hop map."

Nelly, 27, likes his odds stacked against him. He particularly likes the "love" that comes with surmounting them. Such is the theme of "Nellyville", his CD out next month, on which he confronts detractors who call his success a fluke. "I'm a competitor," he says. "I've spent my whole life listening to people tell me I can't, I won't and I'm not. You say I can't, I will."

His struggle wasn't merely with geography. It was a personal battle for belonging, going back to his childhood in the inner city, where he was raised Cornell Haynes Jr. His parents divorced when he was 7, and neither could afford to keep him. "I lived with

whoever I could," he says, recalling eight or nine homes, including a friend's mother's basement. "I learned to depend on myself, which is good. But as a kid, you look at it like, 'Why don't nobody want me?' "

Then there were the schools -- eight of them, four of which expelled him for fighting. "I had chips on my shoulder," he says. "The only way I got over that is, my mama always said she was coming back for me, and she did." She became his role model, working at fast-food restaurants to support him. "She's the only person I ever knew to always have a job, no matter if it was demeaning." His father, a mechanic who picked up odd jobs here and there, is a different story. "Drastic situations mean you have to do drastic things. If you gotta work fast food, then that's what you gotta do. He didn't, and it's a man's responsibility to take care of his family," Nelly says.

Baseball career dashed
An unmarried father, Nelly would do anything to take care of his family, Chanel, 6, and Tre, 3. Yet his drastic situations involved more than fast-food solutions. "I needed ends" -- cash -- he says, referring to the temptations that led him to quit a promising baseball career. The former high school baseball star was scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates and Atlanta Braves. "The letters were comin', but not as fast as the money [from hustling]. I did what I had to do."

While he's not proud of his "not-so-good way of life," he is proud to turn his comeback into inspiration. He spent seven years honing his craft with his group, St. Lunatics, which released the CD "Free City" last year. "Workin' with the 'Tics saved me when people on my block were either locked up or dead. It can be turned around, and that's what I try to tell kids living the same way I was."

The governor's award
Appearances are deceiving. If Nelly's platinum teeth and "Lunatic" stomach tattoo connote ghetto thug, he's Midwestern-mannered. If his Hummer and six-bedroom suburban home convey bloated ego, he recently fulfilled a longstanding promise, funding his mom's early retirement. He's also working with the city's economic development department to revitalize downtown. His charity, Fo' Sho for Kids, provides literacy programs and medical treatment to the city's youth. And he and his group regularly speak at schools, challenging students to exhibition basketball games if they, too, turn their lives around.

"Increasing attendance and [rising] test scores at St. Louis-area schools can be attributed to Nelly and St. Lunatics," says Missouri Gov. Bob Holden, who recently awarded them a state proclamation and whose son is a fan. "They're to be applauded for giving back to a community that has embraced them."

But cookies will suffice. Nelly especially likes chocolate chip. Still, he appreciates the sentiment even more. "Long as I can remember, I've been looking to belong. Me and the Lou? We give and take like family. We got a lot of love."