What Do We Do With Ye Now?

I still remember riding in the backseat while my mom played College Dropout. “Jesus Walks” hit different when you’re eight years old and already asking questions about God and self-worth. Later, I’d walk around the house mouthing the words to “All Falls Down,” captivated by the music video. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy was the first album I ever bought with my own money. That cover. That sound. That man. He was always a musical genius to me. He stood out from all of the other rap music at the time and just music in general.

So yes, I’m a Kanye West fan. A real one. Not one of those who only liked Yeezus because it was edgy, or who discovered him through Donda memes. I’m talking core memories built around this man’s music. I’m talking Family Business playing while I looked at old pictures of relatives I barely remember. I’m talking about Power blasting in my headphones when I needed to believe I had some. That’s why this is complex.

Because today, in 2025, I’m not sure what to do with Ye anymore.

Recently, he sat down with DJ Akademiks for an interview that was supposed to give us a peek into where he’s at right now. Instead, it confirmed what a lot of us feared. He showed up wearing a full black robe that resembled a KKK outfit. Swastika necklace. Hooded head-to-toe. No mask, no metaphor—just Ye, dressed like hate itself. And then he talked. Long, rambling, passionate. Some of it coherent, most of it wild. But it wasn’t random. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He went off on everybody: Diddy, Jim Jones, Playboi Carti, even Kendrick and Drake. He called out Virgil Abloh again. Talked about PDFs and betrayal. Akademiks swears up and down he was lucid the whole time. Says he was sharp, intentional. Not off his rocker. Not having a break. Just Ye being Ye.

And that’s what’s hard to hear. Because if he’s not spiraling—if this isn’t a breakdown—then it means all this chaos is calculated. He’s not out of control. He’s choosing this.

Just days after the interview, Ye announced his next album: WW3. World War 3. The title alone tells you where his head is. He posted the cover and tracklist online. The artwork? Two figures in Klan robes standing in front of haystacks. That’s it. No symbolism to decode. No deep metaphor. Just straight-up white hoods and staged hate. That’s the image he wants tied to his music.

And the tracklist? Man. Eleven songs. Titles like “Free Diddy,” “Cosby,” “Heil Hitler,” and “Hitler Ye and Jesus.” He even drew swastikas in the corners of the tracklist photo like it was some punk-rock zine from the 80s. Except this ain’t punk. This ain’t rebellion. This is something else entirely.

And before anybody says it’s just for shock value, Ye made it clear in his own words—he said he’s created a “new sound called antisemitic.” That’s his artistic lane now. That’s where he’s going. One of the lyrics from the song “WW3” reportedly says, “I’m antisemitic, fully.” Another line? “Reading Mein Kampf, two chapters before I go to sleep.” He’s not just poking at the bear. He’s trying to be it.

Somewhere in that mess is a track called “Bianca,” where he’s talking about his wife—maybe ex-wife at this point—Bianca Censori. It’s probably the only vulnerable moment on the whole list. He admits she left him after one of his social media spirals. He confesses that she tried to get him committed, that she had a panic attack over his tweets, and that he used the Maybach app to track her down. Yeah. That’s where we’re at.

He’s also still throwing shade at Kim. Still referencing Virgil. Still clinging to old wounds and turning them into headlines. It’s a loop now. A cycle of grievance, drama, controversy—repeat. And we’re all watching.

But here’s the twist that makes it all worse: the music might still be good. Bully, his last surprise drop in March, was fire. Straight up. Some of the best beats he’s put together in years. Soulful, layered, innovative. It reminded people of the old Ye. The genius. The guy who made us cry on “Hey Mama” and scream on “Black Skinhead.” That guy is still in there, buried somewhere beneath the swastikas and self-destruction.

And WW3, as offensive as it sounds, has moments that slap. The leaked track “WW3” isn’t terrible musically. The production is cold. His flow still has weight. That’s what makes this so complicated. Because if the music was trash, it would be easy to turn it off. But it’s not. And that’s the conflict.

So now I ask myself—and I ask you, if you’ve ever loved a Kanye song—what do we do with this version of Ye?

Can we still support him? Should we? Do we remove him from our playlists the way people removed R. Kelly? The way people are removing Diddy now? Is it different because Kanye’s offenses aren’t about abuse but about hate speech and imagery? Does that make it more forgivable? Less? Is there a line?

I feel for him, honestly. I know he’s going through custody issues. I know not being able to raise your kids the way you want can mess with a man. I know betrayal, isolation, and being misunderstood can drive you to the edge. But when you start dressing like the KKK and releasing songs called “Heil Hitler,” I don’t know if pain can be an excuse anymore.

This isn’t about “cancel culture.” It’s about boundaries. About community. About legacy. Because Ye’s legacy used to be one of the most powerful in music. He gave a generation the soundtrack to their coming-of-age. He spoke out when others wouldn’t. He made us feel seen, proud, spiritual, creative. Now? Now he’s becoming a symbol of the very hate he used to rebel against.

And six years from now, where will he be? Still dropping albums from a bunker in Wyoming? Will he have found peace? Will we be looking back on this moment as part of his misunderstood genius arc? Or will we be talking about him the way we talk about fallen stars, saying “remember when?” and wishing things had ended differently?

Because right now, it doesn’t feel like he can fall any lower in the public eye. And yet, somehow, he keeps digging.

I’m not here to tell you what to do. I’m just being honest about where I’m at with it. I still listen to “Flashing Lights.” I still get chills when I hear “Runaway.” I still remember how I felt the first time I saw that ballerina spinning in slow motion.

But these days, I feel like I’m watching a hero unravel. And I don’t know if I should look away—or hold on to the version of him I grew up loving.

I think what makes this moment with Ye feel so different is that there’s no filter anymore. No middleman. No PR team. No label exec trying to keep him in check. It’s just him—posting swastikas, tweeting half-truths, airing out personal conversations, and dropping tracklists that look like they were written by a troll with a God complex.

And somehow, there’s still a group of people watching all this unfold like it’s performance art. There’s always that one voice saying, “But this is just Ye pushing boundaries.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe he thinks he’s doing what artists are supposed to do—shake the world up, challenge the norms, speak uncomfortable truths. Maybe, in his mind, WW3 is his version of Guernica—a masterpiece born out of chaos and war. But intent doesn’t always absolve impact.

Because the imagery he’s using isn’t just controversial. It’s dangerous. It’s hate, plain and simple. And what worries me most is not just that he’s embracing it—but that some people are applauding him for it. People who never cared about Late Registration. People who never memorized the words to “Spaceship” or felt the soul in “Roses.” They’re not here because they love Ye—they’re here because they love spectacle. They love rebellion without responsibility.

But I’m not one of them. And I know many of you aren’t either. We’re the ones who remember when he rapped about his mom, his dreams, his faith. When he made us feel something real. That’s why this hurts.

We keep trying to separate the art from the artist. That phrase gets thrown around a lot. But where do you draw the line when the art is the artist? When the content and the controversy are inseparable? When a man makes an album full of Nazi references and proudly labels it part of his “new sound”? Can we really bump that in good conscience?

And if we do—if we still stream it, quote it, vibe to it—what does that say about us?

I’m not pretending to have the answers. I’m conflicted every time I hear something new from him that sounds fire. I’m like, “Damn, this beat is crazy,” right before remembering what he said last week about Hitler. That tension is real. That internal tug-of-war. Especially for Black fans. Especially for those of us who saw him as a symbol of what could be possible when you embrace your full creative self and dare to be different.

Now, difference looks like destruction. Brilliance looks like a cry for help—or worse, a calculated embrace of extremism.

And let’s talk about the silence. Because it’s loud. Nobody in the industry is coming to his defense. Not publicly, anyway. No more “he’s misunderstood” interviews. No more “let the man speak his truth.” Everyone’s watching from the sidelines, hoping the storm passes or the headlines shift. And maybe that’s the right thing. Maybe it’s better for everyone to give space and stop enabling the madness. Or maybe it’s just cowardice disguised as wisdom.

But I do wonder if Ye ever looks around and feels that isolation. Because being right all the time isn’t worth much if you’ve alienated everybody in the process. If your legacy starts to look less like a cultural pillar and more like a cautionary tale.

There’s still brilliance in him. I’ll never say there isn’t. You can hear it on Bully. You can feel it in flashes—when the samples hit, when the melodies bleed emotion. He still has that thing, that spark, that genius. But genius without grounding? Without community? Without truth? It’s a wildfire.

And some people will say we never should’ve put that much faith in one man anyway. That’s fair. We’re all human. We’re all flawed. But Kanye wasn’t just another rapper. He was a mirror. He was a movement. He gave permission for a whole generation of weird Black kids, soulful Black kids, spiritual Black kids, loud Black kids, insecure Black kids—to be themselves. To be fly and faithful. To be awkward and arrogant. He made that space. He made us believe.

And now, he’s doing the opposite. He’s turning that mirror into a mask. And the mask looks like a hate group.

So where does that leave us?

I think it depends on what kind of fan you are.

If you’re still holding out hope for a redemption arc—for a real one, not just a sonic comeback—then maybe this is the point where you pause. Step back. Watch and wait. Let the music sit in silence for a while. Not because you hate Ye. But because you love what he used to mean to you. And you’re not trying to ruin that by forcing yourself to pretend everything is okay when it’s not.

If you’ve already tapped out, I get that too. Some people reached their breaking point years ago. Some couldn’t get past the Trump hat. Others drew the line at the antisemitism. The “White Lives Matter” shirt. The public breakdowns. The disrespect to Black women. The way he weaponized his platform. All of it adds up. You don’t need one final straw when the haystack’s already on fire.

And if you’re still riding, still defending, still streaming? That’s your choice. But I hope you’re honest about why. Is it the music? Is it the nostalgia? Is it the need to believe that genius excuses everything? Because at some point, we all have to reckon with what we’re co-signing when we press play.

This moment we’re in feels like a cultural reckoning. Not just for Kanye. But for us. For how we treat celebrity. For how we define legacy. For what we choose to support, and what we choose to let slide. I don’t think Ye will ever be “canceled” in the traditional sense—he’s too rich, too famous, too embedded in history. But legacy isn’t about numbers. It’s about memory. And right now, he’s rewriting how we remember him. One tweet, one outfit, one track at a time.

I’m not here to tell you to stop listening to Kanye West. I’m not even sure I can do that myself. I still hear “Ultralight Beam” and close my eyes. I still feel a rush when “Power” drops in a playlist shuffle. I’m still grateful for what those songs gave me. But I also know this: there’s a version of Ye that changed my life, and there’s a version now that I don’t recognize.

Maybe he’ll come back from this. Maybe WW3 will be his rock bottom. Maybe the music will finally speak louder than the madness. But I’m not holding my breath. I’m just watching. Processing. Trying to separate the man from the myth, the art from the agenda.

Because Ye gave me the soundtrack to my youth. But I’m grown now. And grown people have to make decisions about what they let into their spirit.

So I’ll ask again: what do we do with Ye now?