Daniel Artest—host of The Artest Effect and Keep’n It 9450, media founder, entrepreneur, and cultural commentator—is known for his candid storytelling, basketball knowledge, and authentic voice. But on the Scoop B Radio Podcast with Brandon “Scoop B” Robinson, Artest went deeper than sports, pulling back the layers on a painful but important journey: confronting his trauma, reckoning with race, and finding room for growth.
“Yeah, I know what story you’re talking about,” Artest said knowingly at the top of the segment. “Back in the day, man, back in the day, it was rough growing up.” That’s how the conversation started—but where it went was raw, vulnerable, and vital.
He described how his upbringing shaped his early views on race. “My mom used to always be like, ‘Hey, don’t you bring no white people home in this house. Don’t you bring no white girls home,’” Artest recalled. That message, passed down through generations, wasn’t random—it was shaped by the pain of his parents’ experiences with racism in America.
“I had my own struggles with white people too, as well,” he added. From hostile environments in youth tournaments to terrifying personal experiences as an adult, his walls were built from real-life pain.
One of the most traumatic moments came after the infamous “Malice at the Palace,” when his brother, Metta Sandiford-Artest (then Ron Artest), was suspended from the NBA. Daniel became a target simply by association.
“I had a gun pulled on me in my head on 106th Street and Michigan Avenue near the Kroger’s. I would never forget that. I had a gun in my head because of the malice.”
The person behind the gun? “It was just basically Pacer fans. That’s all it was,” Artest revealed. “Your brother messed up our season. And [he] just put a gun to my head. Didn’t rob me or nothing like that. Just said, ‘I should just take your effing life.’ And that was that.”
Living in Zionsville, a suburb of Indianapolis, made him an easy target. “Everybody knows what everybody’s driving out there… everybody knew my car.”
That trauma deepened the distrust that had taken root early on. But Artest made it clear—he’s working on it. And one major turning point came through an unlikely connection with journalist Lauren Brill, a white woman who encouraged him to write an open letter reflecting on his journey.
“She pushed me toward doing it. And we actually became pretty cool friends,” Artest said. “She kind of opened that door to be like, ‘Alright, cool—maybe you can coexist in the same room with white people.’”
Their connection led to a piece published on TheUnsealed.com, where Artest candidly explored his internal conflict and slow road to healing. “I got some white friends that kind of understand where I stood at… I was just telling them from what I went through. It was hard for me to have positive interactions with white people because I never really did.”
From a racially hostile youth basketball experience in New Orleans—where Artest and childhood phenom Lenny Cookewere called the N-word—to moments of discomfort in adulthood, his distrust didn’t come from nowhere.
“I had an issue in New Orleans. Me and Lenny Cooke, we played in a tournament… they was calling us the N-word crazy. And, you know, I lost my cool. Me and Lenny Cooke lost our cool.”
These days, Artest finds himself in a different headspace—still guarded, but more open.
“Now I can be in the same space with [white people] and not really feel no real animosity,” he said. “I’m still kind of leery and everything, but… we got people that work for the [9450] network that’s white. So it’s time for me to really just mature up. Maybe some people ain’t bad.”
He likened his past outlook to a metaphor drawn from biology. “At that time, I felt like white people were like cancer cells in our body… cancer cells only come out—could be anything. All of a sudden, someone you thought wasn’t racist just blurts something out that’s crazy. And here we go.”
Still, he doesn’t run from the past—or the path ahead. “I’m a work in progress, brother,” he said.
His respect for family is unwavering. “I never brought nobody white to the house. I’m not going to disrespect my mom. My mom don’t even know I curse. My dad don’t even know I curse. I have tremendous respect for my parents.”
Through storytelling, media, and unfiltered dialogue, Daniel Artest is not only shaping conversations—he’s healing in public. And as he continues to evolve as a host, businessman, and voice in the culture, his willingness to be vulnerable may be one of the most powerful parts of his platform.
