It’s 1:26 a.m. the day before Labor Day.

Pershaun Mathis, junior in psychology, prepares for his moment.

Four minutes until he is set to take the stage at the Maintenance Shop in the Memorial Union turn into seconds until a fight breaks out between two women and the party Mathis is supposed to close is shut down.

One of the last to leave, Mathis looks back at the stage as the music dies and the spotlight fades.

Back at his apartment the night before, Mathis lies awake in his bedroom surrounded by posters of Tupac Shakur, Biggie Smalls, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Jay-Z, Lil’ Wayne, Kanye West and Drake.

His MXLV 88 microphone is centered between two foam walls he created himself. As he gets up, he takes off his Chicago Bulls hat and turns the switch of his microphone and takes a breath before he begins to tell his story.

Mathis is a rapper. More popularly known as Shaun Billz, this self-proclaimed severely shy person transforms from Pershaun to Shaun when the music sets in and his feet leave the ground for those three minutes of a song.

“In order for people to understand who Shaun is, you have to understand who Pershaun is first,” Mathis said.

Days before, Mathis leaves his speech class to go to his job at Lied Recreation Athletic Center where his co-workers are asked by Mathis what they know about him; none of them can say much except adjectives like talented, funny and mysterious.

“What is the mystery that is Pershaun?” said Michelle Rehak, senior in kinesiology and co-worker.

Other employees enter the building and are asked the same question by Mathis: “What do you know about me, you guys?”

“He’s a dancer,” said one.

“You rap, right?” said another.

Born in Harvey, Ill., a suburb of Chicago, Mathis was the youngest member of the family. His mother, Fonda Lolita Mathis, had six children from four different fathers: a daughter, Lenore, and five sons, Charles, Antowaun, Curtiz, Brandon and Pershaun.

The family went from house to house and various apartments. With such a big family and little income, the bills couldn’t be paid and they were forced to move. Mathis attended nine different schools before he graduated high school.

“I remember I went to school for one day in fifth grade and had to move,” Mathis said. “It was only the third day of school, too.”

Living in a shelter at the time, Mathis’s mother, a nurse, was laid off earlier in the year.

Sitting on a bench in the tennis courts before he has to go to work at Lied Center, Mathis hesitates and stares out into the courts.

“Imma go ahead and say this,” Mathis said. “Me and my mom … we lived out of a truck for a couple months that year in the summer time. We used to drive it to this park that was in Chicago Heights called Commissioners Park and just park it. I remember all we had was food stamps.

“I’ve never told anyone that. The only one that knows is me and my mom and now you. My father doesn’t even know about us living in the truck.”

Mathis still has yet to really meet his father. Addicted to drugs and someone who didn’t even go to college, Mathis said he doesn’t understand how he came from such a person.

Although he’s talked to him a few times on the phone, Mathis said all his father ever really has to say is hello and goodbye, and it’s mostly always goodbye.

“I’m kinda afraid to ask him the questions I want to ask him,” he said. “I already know I won’t like the responses I’ll get … why he wasn’t around; why he would leave; did he feel like a better man after he did it; how did it make you feel knowing you weren’t being a father to a son who had no one to ever pay attention to him? I just know my whole life would’ve been better had he been there.”

With hardly any place to go, Mathis stayed in the truck, ate when he could and constantly tried to listen to music. He had to wash up about twice a week at a nearby relative’s residence.

The next year, Mathis, 12 at the time, moved to Virginia. Mathis’s older brother, Antowaun, hooked Mathis on hip-hop music. While his brother often rapped and wrote, Mathis just started writing his own thoughts down after watching his older brother do so effortlessly so many times before.

“My first rhyme wasn’t about girls,” Mathis said. “It was about the things I wanted to have, the person I wanted to become.”

Apart from his interest in music, Mathis said he wants to be a counselor eventually. He has a psychology major with a minor he considers to be a second major in music technology, he is also starting his fifth semester in Iowa State’s hip-hop dance club, Dub-H.

Through scholarships, hard work and paying attention in high school as well as help from financial aid, Mathis is putting himself through college.

But it’s really the love from his family and the music that keeps him strong.

“My mother is my best friend,” Mathis said. “I put my family before everything except for God. They’re the reason I’m sitting with you right here, today. As far as my music goes … the music lets me know that I’m still alive.”

Releasing songs on his Myspace and personal Facebook page, Mathis has garnered a following playing at different venues and open mics across Ames.

He created the name Shaun Billz a couple of years ago after trying out other names — such as Iceman, coming from his obsession with jewelry — and decided Shaun Billz was short and memorable enough so people would remember his name when they’re listening to his music and watching him perform.

“Shaun is doing great things, especially at his age and with college still a priority,” said Andrew Lopez, junior in pre-liberal studies and performing arts director of the M-Shop. “Performers who ‘make it’ usually possess two important qualities, attitude and charisma. Shaun shows that on and off the stage. He’s contagious and you’ll know it.”

In the process of being copyrighted, Mathis has created his own record label, Mucha Loot. With help from different local producers and friends, Mathis makes his own beats, writes and sometimes sings in his own songs and freestyles when he feels he should.

“Freestyle!” Rehak said at Lied Center..

Mathis flips playing cards over onto the table in front of him, ace of diamonds.

“Seems like every day is that day, trynna be discovered from far away, my momma always say, baby you gonn’ be a star one day.”

Mathis thinks he’ll be discovered one day. Considering himself a late bloomer, he said you just need time and patience and everything will soon fall into place.

It’s two days after Mathis was snubbed out of his performance. An hour into Open Mic Night at the M-Shop, Mathis anxiously sits in his chair waiting for his name to be called up to the stage. Hours before he arrived, Mathis updated his Facebook status.

“Pershaun Mathis Has an Untold Story, But Soon Will Be The Reason Why U Will Have No Choice But To Luv Me, I Just Hope This Is For The Better and Not Worst.”

Dressed in his Chicago Bulls hat, a white T-shirt and diamond earrings informing those around him of his importance, Mathis doesn’t have to wait any longer.

With black sneakers he steps onto the stage. The lights go down and the spotlight shines hues of pink, green and blue as he takes the microphone into his hand with an urgency that lifts the people out of their seats.

“Thanks for comin’ out everybody,” he said. “My name’s Shaun, and this is what I do.”

And the beat drops.