By Arturo R. García

No doubt we all thought this at one point yesterday: Heavy D is gone? But he just came back!

Hev – born Dwight Errington Myers in Mount Vernon, N.Y. – died Tuesday at the shockingly young age of 44. Unlike Joe Frazier, the rapper/actor had not been reported as suffering from any illness; in fact, he tweeted his condolences for the boxer:

At the time of his death, Heavy had seemingly only begun to step back into the public eye: last month he appeared at both a Michael Jackson tribute show in Wales and at the BET Music Awards, and moviegoers saw him in the new Eddie Murphy film Tower Heist. A video of what would turn out to be his final interview, with Tim Westwood, went online just yesterday.

That interview now stands as a summation of his career arc: growing up as an artist in New York’s hip-hop community; the origin of the classic “TROY (They Reminisce Over You);” and his “nerve-wracking” comeback, cut off way too soon.

During his career, Hev was able to gather a group of rap heavyweights and get them to do their thing without cursing; he teamed up with both Michael and Janet Jackson; he was a father and the president of a music label; he was witty and ribald without being crass; and as he told Westwood, he put in weeks’ worth of rehearsal for his BET performance because he cared. That love for the music was always evident, and that might be what fans will miss the most.

By Arturo R. García

In 1957 she had a Billboard-charting single called “Love Is Strange,” a duet with ace guitarist Mickey Baker. The song has been used in movies from “Dirty Dancing” to “Mermaids” to “Casino.”

But after “Love Is Strange” the Harlem-born musician moved to New Jersey with her husband to raise their children. Sylvia and Joe Robinson were ambitious. They built a nightclub favored by boxers and Motown stars, and a recording studio where Robinson began writing songs for other artists. Al Green rejected one because he found it too sexy. So Robinson sang “Pillow Talk” herself.
- Neda Ulaby, NPR

However, it was in 1979 that Robinson began forging her indelible mark on an emerging art form that began taking shape at clubs and dance parties in New York. Inspired after listening to people rap over instrumental breaks, Robinson formed the Sugarhill Gang. Comprised Michael “Wonder Mike” Wright, Guy “Master Gee” O’Brien and Henry “Big Bank Hank” Jackson, the trio rapped over a rhythm track that sampled Chic’s 1979 R&B/pop hit “Good Times.” It was the first commercial hit for the burgeoning rap revolution and for Robinson and her husband’s post-All Platinum label Sugar Hill Records, named after Harlem, NY’s Sugar Hill neighborhood.

Robinson later signed seminal rap act Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five to Sugar Hill. The group struck top five (No. 4) status on the R&B charts with the socially conscious “The Message,” featuring Melle Mel and Duke Bootee in 1982. The group was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007.

“‘Ms. Rob doin’ the job’ was a rhyme boast on recordings from Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five,” Public Enemy frontman Chuck D recalled to Billboard.biz. “Sylvia’s artistic talent and public notoriety have been mimicked without due credit for the past 30 years in the recorded art form she birthed. She was a black woman who pushed the button and turned the key to crank up a billion-dollar industry.”
- Gail Mitchell, Billboard Magazine

By 1979 Flash was approached by legendary record producer/store owner Bobby Robinson of Enjoy Reords, who wanted to Rrecord Flash and the Group. During this same period Cowboy, Melle Mel, Kid Creole and former Funky Four member Raheim had recorded a record for Brass Records called “We Rap More Mellow” under an assumed name, The Younger Generation.

Soon After, Flash and the Furious Five (with Raheim now a member) began recording for Robinson, with their first 12-inch single for the label being “Superappin’.” Disappointed with Robinson’s inability to get them on radio, the group soon signed with Sylvia Robinson’s Sugar Hill Records, on the strength of her promise to get them to perform on the backing track of a record that was a DJ favorite at the time, titled “Get Up and Dance,” by the group Freedom. Flash and the Furious Five’s first record for Sugar Hill was, in fact, titled “Freedom,” and was a hit with the Hip-Hop crowd. During that same year the group recorded the song “Birthday Party”
- Grandmaster Flash bio on Sing365.com

White rappers aren’t the problem. Exploitation of Black culture is.

Black culture is diverse with various meanings; and how one defines Black culture varies from individual. In the case of Kreayshawn, I’m referring to her misinterpretation of what she thinks Black culture and hip-hop is.

One could argue she is exactly what hip-hop has become–gimmicky, devoid of substance, whack, the glorification of a street life, sexualized and talentless. If that’s the case, is she appropriating Black culture or just a part of a watered down genre?

I don’t believe for one second her image is authentic. It is one derived of the stereotypical “sister girl” trope we’ve seen time and time again. Understand, I’m not arguing whether “sister girl” actually exists. I’m not even arguing that the “sister girl” is to be shunned. But Kreayshawn’s image, how she carries herself, her lyrics are all derivative of her very limited view of Black culture.
- From “Kreayshawn: Another Case of Appropriating Black Culture,” by Bene Viera, June 6

By Arturo R. García

We got to do our do, not separate, together
Got to move on through, not separate, together
Got to do our do, not separate, together
Got to move on through, not separate, together
- A Tribe Called Quest, “Separate/Together,” 1996

Going by the trailer to an upcoming documentary, A Tribe Called Quest’s reunion earlier this decade put those lyrics to the test.

The highs and lows of that effort, as well as the group’s history, will be covered in Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels Of A Tribe Called Quest, which received critical praise when it premiered this past January at the Sundance Film Festival.

Directed by actor Michael Rapaport, Beats, Rhymes & Life will include not only performance footage and interviews with members Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, Jarobi White and Ali Shaheed Muhammad, but it looks like we’ll get to see how a feud between Phife and Q-Tip threatened to implode the group even as it returned to prominence.

“Is A Tribe Called Quest gonna make more music?” Rapaport asks Ali at one point. Ali’s response: “You got the answer to that question?”

Click here for a list of theatres that will show the film after it opens in July. The trailer, courtesy of Yahoo and Slashfilm, is under the cut.

And as an added kickstart to your Friday morning, enjoy:

I fucked up.

In my post about the transphobia stinking up the Mr. Cee/Brooke-Lynn Pinklady arrest, I referred to Brooke-Lynn as a trans woman.  This I gathered from the reports and from how I was taught to recognize how the media tends to misgender trans women and other female-presenting people, complete with the public humilation of referring to their government names, vicious transmisogynistic slurs, and misuse of pronouns.

Come to find out that I was wrong.  In this video (NSFW alert: language) that Bossip just released, Brooke-Lynn not only self-identifies but also discusses the arrest:

A transcript is under the cut.

Hi everybody this is Brooke-Lynn Pinklady. I’m sure by now everybody’s heard of me, and what supposedly happened. And I just wanted to set the record straight and let everybody know that nothing in deep happened in that car. Pretty much I feel like this is an internet blog that got totally out of hand, and a lot of things of things I’ve read are totally not true about me and my character. I can’t speak on his behalf. Basically, I’m not a transsexual, I’m a drag queen – I don’t do this all the time, I don’t dress like this all the time. Those of you who have seen my face (inaudible) probably know that. I feel like the media has this like, made me out to be this person, I feel like, just to get at him for some reason, make it a story, and that’s definitely not true. I’m definitely not a prostitute. I’m not in any way or shape or form easy – I don’t do things like that. I don’t have sex for money. I don’t need to have sex for money. I make enough money on my own.

Pretty much the situation I have right now is, I’m kind of trying to rebuild my life and try to get over the situation, you know, life goes on, and try to do bigger and better things, and not let this bring me down – all of the things that people are saying or doing. Basically – I don’t know, I’m not really upset. I was really devastated when I seen all the things that were online, I was really like, “who could do something like this?” I was really upset. I feel like people nowadays will do anything and everything for money. This whole thing was like, I feel, like a big-ass entertainment scheme. And I don’t understand why I was brought into it, just to be … The whole thing is just crazy to me. I decided to do a video in drag because … oh, ’cause everybody’s seen it, I didn’t see the need to do it every other way. Basically people are trying to make me into this infamous celebrity now. And although that would be nice, I would rather not be known for something I didn’t do. Or even if I was to do it, who wants to be known for something like that? It’s really not my thing. I did an interview and people are talking, wanting me to host parties, host events. And that would be nice and all that, but I don’t want to make this something to be proud of.

But like I said, none of these things that you’re reading are true. None of these fake-ass blogs are me, definitely. I don’t have a Twitter. Actually, I have a Twitter, but I don’t use it. But the little stupid-ass Twitters that you’re seeing, please don’t believe it, ’cause it’s not me. I don’t do shit like that. I don’t got time for infinite drama. I don’t got time for people on the internet that feel the need to run their mouths. It’s not my cup of tea. I don’t deal with shit like that. If you see me, say it to my fucking face, and that’s all I wanna say.

I don’t even know what else to say. I know one thing’s for sure: I’ve totally lost all respect for NYPD. That’s for damn sure. Like I said, I feel like people will do anything for money nowadays. Literally anything, and it’s just ridiculous. Who would wanna bring out somebody’s name just to make you happy, or make you rich. I realize that you have to live with yourself, and so do I so we’re not gonna deal with that … I kind of don’t know what else to say. I’m gonna reactivate my Facebook in a couple of days. I just wanted things to die out, ’cause I was getting so many adds, and it was just crazy. Everybody looking at me, asking me questions, men hitting me up, I was like, “Yeah.” Tomorrow I’m probably gonna make a Twitter of my own, and I’m not gonna reply to any of these little things that I’ve been hearing, ’cause like I said, it doesn’t matter to me what anybody on the outside thinks, ’cause at the end of the day, you don’t know me, and you never will know me. The only people that know me and how I am is the people that I’m close to – which is my family and my true friends. Throughout this experience, I feel like I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned who I can trust and who I can’t. I found who my real friends were in a situation like this. Granted, I never thought anything like this would ever happen to me. The whole thing is just weird to me … but I want it to be gone.

The whole thing needs to stop now, and people need to move on with their lives, ’cause really it’s none of anybody’s business what [inaudible] at the end of the day it’s really not … initially, when I made this video, I was gonna act like a complete faggot, or whatever you wanna call it – like a total, complete bitch. But … I don’t know, I just feel like I should be a bigger person about the situation. I don’t have the time to respond to ignorant-ass people who don’t know anything about me or who the situation is. Basically, my thing is, where I’m gonna leave it is, don’t believe everything that you hear, don’t believe everything that you read, because people exaggerate to get better stories. And, at the end of the day, if that’s what you think is gonna make your pockets fatter, do you. But just know when you do things like that and write shit about people that’s not true, it kinda shows what kind of person you are, that you sell yourself out for money, end of the day. I’m gonna move on with your life and just do the things I wanna do. I’m trying to sing, rap – all of these things that I wanna do, and I’m not gonna let anything deter me. Stupid shit like this is definitely not gonna affect me anymore. It’s crazy that I even have the strength to do this video … This is my first time even being at a computer in a few days – in a week, actually. I was just so not wanting to see the little bullshit on it … my privacy has been totally invaded, and I don’t know how I feel about the Internet anymore. This kind of scarred me, I feel like. Anyway, to those that know me, love you. Shout out to Pinklady. Shout out to all my friends that helped me through this – I couldn’t have done it without you, and family. Hopefully you’ll be seeing me in the future – there’ll be good things coming out of it, and not bullshit … Bye!

So, on behalf of myself and for Racialicious, I deeply apologize to you, Brooke-Lynn–and to anyone else I upset–for my own misgendering and for any other hurt I caused with not respecting how you self-identify.

By Guest Contributor Renina Jarmon (M.Dot) cross-posted from New Model Minority

So I have been thinking of Nate Dogg in general but rap music in particular and the difference between how I as a Black woman and how White men relate to rap music.

While I understand that sexism and patriarchy is systemic, that we LEARN and are taught how to be “men” and “women,” how to be racist, how to be sexist as well as  how to Love, how to forgive.

What I am getting at is, to be crude, we don’t pop out of our mommas knowing how to be men and women, we are taught from infancy on through blue and pink clothing,  girls being told to sit a certain way that is lady like, boys being told crying is weak, and not manly etc.

I also know that there are several structural things impacting the lives of Black men and women such as archaic drug laws, mandatory minimums, three strikes, the underdevelopment of public education, gentrification, police who shot and kill Black people with impunity, and the lack of good grocery stores in working class and low income neighborhoods. All this shit matters.

Culture matters as well. Culture meaning,  music, books, websites and films.

Culture is hegemony’s goon.

Which brings me to Nate Dogg. The recent coverage of his death clarified for me why some issues that I have thought of about rap music but didn’t have the language to articulate.

I am a little troubled over how White mens investment in Black mens misogyny in rap music isn’t interrogated. And how that shit impacts me and the women who look like me.

Society is organized by and for men.

And our lives in the US are hyper segregated racially.

By and large Black people don’t live around White folks, so most White men can experience the pleasure of singing “and you even licked my balls” in the comfort of their cars, homes and apartments, whereas a young Black man said to me nearly two years ago on 125th street that he wanted to “stick his dick in my butt.”

On the street, in broad daylight.

That shit was so absurd I thought HE was singing a rap song initially. No, he was talking to me.

Consequently, largely, White men are  not subjected to the kinds of violence and sexism that is sung about in the songs that Nate sang the hook on. As a Black woman, I am.

As a woman, as a Black women who Walks like she has a right to be in the street, this means my ass is toast.

For example, there is an officer in my neighborhood that harasses me so f-cking much that I am now on a first name basis, Peace to Officer Anderson. Typically he stops me because there is apparently a 11pm curfew in DC for children under 18 on week nights. He normally asks me from his car, “Hey, how old are you.”  Dead ass, the second time he did it, I responded saying I was grown. o.O

After the third time, I was like “Mr. Officer whats your name because this is either the second or third time you have asked me that, and seeing as we are going to keep running into each other, I thought we could just on speaking terms.” He smiled. Doesn’t MPD carry 9mm’s too? Sassing officers of the state who carry legal weapons?  Ummhmm. And, he told me his name.

My clarity on this issue came about after I read a excerpt of a post on NPR about Nate Dogg by Jozen Cummings. He writes,

“There’s also “Ain’t No Fun (If The Homies Can’t Get None),” a song that was never chosen as a single from Snoop Dogg’s debut album, Doggystyle but has become a favorite for many DJs trying to work a room. The song is a tour-de-force of misogynistic lyrics, but only Nate Dogg can make a verse about dismissing a one-night stand sound so sensitive and endearing.”

“Remembering Nate Dogg, Hip-Hop’s Hook Man”

by Jozen Cummings, NPR.org,  March 16th, 2011

(via beatsrhimesandlife)

Then I reblogged and responded on tumblr saying:

In some ways, Cummings comments re Nate Dogg remind me of why I think The Chronic and Doggy Style are the Devil, in terms of rap music. Men in general and White men in particular have a different relationship to the kinds of violence that I am subjected to as a Black woman who WALKS like she has a right to be in the street. Shit…two weeks ago I told two dudes to kill me or leave me alone. Dead ass. This ain’t for play. This is our lives.

Have you ever thought about White men’s investment in rap lyrics by Black men that are hella outta pocket?

I went to look for Cummings racial identity and I learned that he is African American, Japanese and Korean, so I am not saying that he is White. What I am saying is that his writing about Nate Dogg’s misogyny reminds me of how when the misogyny bomb is dropped, people who look like me tend to get hit with hella sharpnel. Whereas White men get to live out their thug fantasies singing along with Nate “And you even licked my balls.”

The Chronic and Doggystyle are sonically genius, however, did they up the ante on allowing White men and even some Black ones live out their Black sex fantasies?

Do you see the connection between Black women and White men that I am trying to make, why or why not?

Aside from the fact that Ashley Judd has no clue about Hip-Hop as an art form and a culture, her comment shows an underlying prejudice towards black men. She says that Snoop and Diddy’s participation in YouthAIDS raised a red flag for her. If she knew anything about Hip-Hop or maybe even had a conversation with either one of these men, she’d know that neither condone rape or create violent music (at least not in the last decade), both are intelligent and savvy media moguls, and both are fathers (each has a least one daughter). So why wouldn’t they use their star power and influence to spread the message to young people, and especially the Hip-Hop community, about the importance of HIV/AIDS prevention? Shouldn’t they be lauded? If their music is so sexually irresponsible, isn’t it a good thing that they are talking about safe sex considering that HIV/AIDS transmission rates are so much higher among African-Americans?

I have looked closely at the feedback I have received about those two paragraphs, and absolutely see your points, and I fully capitulate to your rightness, and again humbly offer my heartfelt amends for not having been able to see the fault in my writing, and not having anticipated it would be painful for so many. Crucial words are missing that could have made a giant difference. It should have read: “Some hip-hop, and some rap, is abusive. Some of it is part of the contemporary soundtrack misogyny (which, of course, is multi-sonic). Some of it promotes the rape culture so pervasive in our world…..” Also, I, ideally, would have anticipated that some folks would see only representations of those two paragraphs, and not be familiar with the whole book, my work, and my message. I should have been clear in them that I include hip-hop and rap as part of a much larger problem. It is beyond unfortunate that I am talking about some, for example, of Snoop Dogs’ lyrics, an assumption has been spread I was talking about every single artist in both genres. That is false and distorted. Here, I am again aware that it would be impossible for me to get this “exactly right.” Some will find fault, no matter how careful I am, no matter what my intentions.

“Why don’t we [help] end rape culture instead of getting mad that we’re getting called out on it?”

On March 30 hip-hop producer Calvin “Mr.Cee” Lebrun—he of Notorious B.I.G.’s Ready to Die fame–was busted by New York City police allegedly receiving oral sex from a sex worker. Reports said Lebrun supposedly received the sexual favors from “a man” .  This got some people feeling some kind of homophobic way, complete with saying that “we all should have seen this coming” because of his alleged “golden showers” kink.  As Sister Toldja wrote earlier this week :

To be totally fair, this isn’t the average gay rumor; not only was the other person in the case allegedly paid for the act, the writer who dropped this gossip also claimed that Mister Cee has a thing for urinating on female strippers. So while much of the chatter is about Mister Cee being (allegedly) infected with The Gay, folks are aghast by this pee thing, too. Considering our attitudes about sexuality, that’s no surprise.

With homophobia and anti-kink sentiments roiling—and Lebrun and his supporters doing the NYPD Hip-Hop Conspiracy Step —hip-hop artist and critic dream hampton provided some level-headed analysis about the situation:

While highly regarded in the hip hop industry and in New York, Mister Cee is not necessarily famous. Still, his arrest gave opportunity to talk about the persistent poking around hip hop’s “closet,” where speculation about sexual orientation is practically a sport. Charlamagne actually elevated the conversation by asking why a married 44-year-old man was seeking sexual favors from a 20-year-old, professional or otherwise, and if that, then why in a parked car? I argue that none of this would be a discussion, viral or anywhere else, had Cee been arrested with a 20-year-old woman, be she prostitute or not. I also don’t believe, 2011 or not, that hip hop is a safe space for anything other than aggressively heterosexual public behavior or affirmation. While obviously lesbian women MCs and personalities remain silent if not closeted about their sexuality, there is even less space for men to appear bisexual or homosexual.

I believe that Mister Cee’s sexuality is a personal matter, one he must reckon with himself and his wife. But Charlamagne’s co-host Angela Yee took the position widely held by heterosexual women—that closeted bisexual men are a health hazard, exposing trusting women to AIDS and more. While I’m not dismissive of those concerns, particularly in a marriage, where condom use is expected to be abandoned, I do know that we heterosexual Black women don’t exactly offer safe spaces for bisexual men to express their desires.

I’m also far more concerned that the transgendered 20-year-old who allegedly serviced him be safe, particularly if he is a sex worker. I wished aloud on my own Twitter feed that the discussion about Mister Cee would be one about decriminalizing sex work and focusing on harm reduction rather than speculating if Mister Cee is closeted.

Hampton is right in this respect.

The sex worker who is said to have provided the service, it turns out, is–based on the clues and cues I have picked up on from the media as well as personal education around trans issues and media literacy–a trans woman named Brooke-Lynn Pinklady not a “transvestite” that the first link’s source and other news and gossip sites—both cisgay and presumably cisstraight–thought to misgender as “a man.” (Even hampton refers to her as a “transgendered male.”) There’s a difference—a big difference—between a cis man, a “transvestite,” and a trans woman. (And, for the 50-11th time, the word is not “transgendered.” As several trans activists have point out, no one says “gayed” or “heteroed.” It’s “transgender” or “trans.” And I’m not going to go there about the word “trannie.” Suffice to say: don’t. It’s a slur. Don’t.)

To make the whole matter much worse, several outlets—and even the NYPD, never known at the bastion of tolerance, let alone acceptance and advocacy of trans people–refer to Brooke-Lynn by her government name instead of, like this post, honoring her as how she presents gender-wise.  Since too few people accorded her any sort of respect around her gender identity, we’re getting transphobia–specifically transmisogyny–twisted in the homophobia. Because of the constant misgendering of Brooke-Lynn as a “he,” out comes the assumption that Mr. Cee supposedly had sex with a “man.” No, Mr. Cee had sex with a woman, full stop—regardless of how he sexually identitfies. As Monica Roberts at TransGriot writes:

Many of us still have ID’s with mismatched name and gender code info or are in states that despite us having legal name changes, refuse to change gender codes until the person undergoes GRS.

…

SRS is not the end all and be all to determining gender identity or when a person transitions to the other gender.

As far as I’m concerned, the second you swallow you first hormone or take your first shot of testosterone, begin living in the opposite gender and make moves to harmonize your body with that gender role that may or may not include surgical options, you ARE that gender.

Many transpeople who would like to have it either aren’t able to afford genital surgery or have health issues that prevent it. There are many transpeople successfully living in our new gender roles despite possessing neoclits in our panties.

To break this point down for you: gender is between your ears, not your legs.

With that said, let’s bring this back to hampton’s concern.

According to a landmark report from the National Center for Transgender Equality and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force , sixteen percent of trans people of color (TPoCs) who responded to the organizations’ survey have turned to selling sex and drugs in order to survive. Furthermore, the report states:

• Respondents who were currently unemployed experienced debilitating negative outcomes, including nearly double the rate of working in the underground economy (such as doing sex work or selling drugs), twice the homelessness, 85% more incarceration, and more negative health outcomes, such as more than double the HIV infection rate and nearly double the rate of current drinking or drug misuse to cope with mistreatment, compared to those who were employed.
• Respondents who had lost a job due to bias also experienced ruinous consequences such as four times the rate of homelessness, 70% more current drinking or misuse of drugs to cope with mistreatment, 85% more incarceration, more than double the rate working in the underground economy, and more than double the HIV infection rate, compared to those who did not lose a job due to bias.

I agree the cruel parlor game of Suspecting Teh Gayz, especially on spurious reasons like being down with kink, needs to cease within some Black communities as well as a conversation around decriminalizing sex work needs to open up.  I also think what happened with Mr. Cee is a perfect opportunity to talk about transphobia, gender identity, and gender policing, too—which, as an ex-friend pointed out to me, tend to be the “what’s really going on” when some want to go homophobic because they want to judge what a “real man” or a “real woman” is supposed to look like and act like.

We’re wrecking too, too many lives with this basic disrespect.

Photo Credit: thesmokinggun.com

Not long ago I had the pleasure of seeing a documentary released by California Newsreel entitled Blacking Up: Hip-Hop’s Remix of Race and Identity by filmmaker Robert Clift. The film opens by taking us on a kind of behind-the-scenes look at white american suburban culture in a way that mass media rarely does.

We see high school dance team routines that include bandanas and hip-hop-inspired choreography. We’re introduced to white people who have dealt with harassment from their white peers for allegedly  “acting” black. We hear from personalities of different occupations and opinions (from Paul Mooney to Russell Simmons) concerning their thoughts on race in hip-hop and the ways in which white participation plays into the racial history of music in America. It is basically an entertaining and very well-thought-out exploration of the racial, residential and historical aspects that influence how we begin to consider the complex and ever-enduring question of where to “draw lines” when discussing white enjoyment and/or consumption of black cultures.

One of the things that stood out to me about the documentary was that it historicizes white involvement in hip-hop in a way that many critics and commentators fail to do. White people have long had a fascination with black people, hence the whole “blackface” thing, and all of its earlier and later, sometimes-not-so-subtle manifestations. There was Amos ‘n’ Andy and Al Jolson, Elvis Presley and Benny Goodman — people who are not only well-known in their fields but even hold titles of “king,” for example, amongst a host of talented performers and in some cases, originators, of their styles. At one point in the doc, Amiri Baraka recites what he calls a “loku” that is something along the lines of, “If Elvis Presley is King, who is James Brown? God?”

It was only apt that I happened to see this documentary shortly before discovering this video of two girls imitating rapper Lil B’s video for “I Cook”. (For the Record, I found this while I was on Lil B’s website, which I frankly had no business being on and have henceforth concluded is brake fluid for brain cells. But I was there because this guy had a sold out show at the Highline Ballroom a few weeks ago and has been gaining a (cult-like) following with his puzzling balance of over-the-top vulgarity and endearing sincerity.) On his site, the rapper encourages people to submit videos of themselves remaking his videos. And while this can disguise itself as a harmless thing, there is something to be said about a figure such as Lil B, a black male rapper to say the least, encouraging people to perform him.

Upon being appalled at a couple of the Lil B fan videos — and since my very exciting meditation on white people and the blues —I began to reflect on these matters of white people and hip-hop, white people and the blues, white people and blackness. And it has crossed my mind that these matters, like many, have a lot to do with privilege and entitlement — neither of which is generally a conscious influence, but the fact is white people (at large) have the option to pick from identities.

As the black female lead said to her white lover in Memphis: A New Musical, “You can go back to being white whenever you want to.” And even the implication that one ever “leaves” their whiteness is a bit misleading, because truly, skin privilege is something that one cannot dress/sing/dreadlock/punk out of (although there are surely ways to consciously address it and perhaps even eschew it). In the documentary, there is a clip where pop singer Empire Isis, a blonde-haired girl with dreadlocks, laments on the rigidity of identity. She stresses how people always want things to fit into a box. The amusing thing is, the “box” she refers to hardly applies to her with the same strictness and consequences that it does Other people. She enjoys a kind of fluidity that comes with power: rebellion within a privileged class. Hippies, punks and “wiggers” all jiving on a thin line over the safety net of whiteness.

Then there is the entitlement,  which reveals itself in very profound ways. As a friend pointed out to me during a discussion about blues music, white people have a history of wanting to be able to enjoy certain parts of folks’ artistic and cultural production, while being reluctant (or downright unwilling) to engage other parts of their experiences. For example, many people may be comfortable buying certain CDs or hanging certain posters on their walls — typically because they feel a genuine connection to the expression — but are unlikely to attend a speech by a black intellectual or to have read works by black writers.

It’s an odd (and virtually impossible) endeavor to divorce a people’s cultural production from their *culture*, including their intellectual production, and the social and political climates that cradle it. And in a place where all of us are used to consuming art, people have a really huge problem with the notion that some art *may* not be produced for “public” (meaning their own) consumption. And what’s more, people are oftentimes adamantly adverse to educating themselves about the intellectual or political climates that shape the art they so easily enjoy.

This all to say that when we are looking at something as multidimensional as white involvement with black music, there are many, many particulars to ponder, raise eyebrows at, and in some cases, outright detest. Things like privilege and entitlement, which I consider two of the most common inhibitors to people understanding race, racism and their role in things, are just a couple of forces to keep in mind when contemplating the questions Clift poses and so carefully inspects in his illuminating film: When is it adoration and when is it mockery? What’s individuality and what’s stereotype? When is it fun, and when is it “blacking up“?

By Sexual Correspondent Andrea (AJ) Plaid

I’m glad I saw the legend, at least.

I had heard about Samuel Fuller’s film White Dog in whispers, like a deeper-than-the-FBI-and-the-Illuminati-plotting-in-Area-51 conspiracy theory among my more “conscious” Black acquaintances — mostly because the film was banned, though no one ever said exactly why.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I attended a screening of the film at the the Maysles Cinema in Harlem, hosted by the the Ego Trip hip hop collective – who are, in full disclosure, the R editrix’s heroes – as part of the movie’s house series, “I See White People,” billed in the theater’s program as a “quarterly series on the visibility of white racism, white privilege, and unacknowledged white culture.” Ego Trip’s Chairman Jefferson Mao added, deadpan, that the film was chosen because “we’re fans of the racist dog horror genre.”

To say the film’s history is “complex” should qualify it as one of the word’s understated synonyms. The history of the book upon which it’s based would qualify as another synonym. Spoilers and highlights from a Q&A discussion Ego Trip hosted after the screening are under the cut. (If you have a slightly deeper quick-and-dirty curiosity, read here.)

SPOILERS AHEAD

The plot is rather simple: Julie, a young white actor (played by 80s teen star Kristy McNichol) decides to adopt a white German shepherd she hit during a nighttime drive.  She thinks the dog is the perfect pet. However, other people suss something’s wrong with it, starting with the actor’s white boyfriend (Jameson Parker).  What’s wrong is the white dog is a “white dog,” a canine trained to lethally attack Black people, from the sanitation worker to the actor’s Black co-star to a random pedestrian.

When Julie finally recognizes this, she sends the dog to a wild-animal training refuge for re-education. The refuge’s owners are divided on what to do with it: Carruthers (Burl Ives), a white man, tells her the dog is a lost cause; Keys (Paul Winfield), a black man, reluctantly, then determinedly, tries to reform it.

Keys also explains to Julie that the dog’s behavior was probably the result of conditioning: the original owner paid homeless and/or drug-addicted Black people to abuse the dog when it was younger, to the point that the dog was conditioned to associate Black people and being attacked. This is underscored by an encounter between Julie and the owner, an older white man and his two granddaughters. Later, the dog, retrained to not attack Black people, hesitates about attacking Julie, then turns and runs towards Carruthers in teeth-baring mode. The dog leaps, and Keys shoots.

Director Roman Polanski was hired to direct White Dog in 1975 before his being brought up on statutory rape charges led him to leave the U.S.  Six years and several creative teams later, screenwriter Curtis Hanson (L.A. Confidential), who was to have worked with Polanski, and director Samuel Fuller took on the project (with the encouragement, curiously, of ex-Disney CEO Michael Eisner.)

At the time, the NAACP, along with other civil-right leaders and organizations, expressed concern that the film would spark racial violence, questioned using a book written by a white man (and a “pulpy” book at that), and criticized Paramount for hiring the mostly white film crew. The studio brought in two Black consultants to critique the Black characters. One, a vice-president at the local PBS station, said he found nothing wrong with the depictions; the other, an NAACP vice-president, thought the film would aggravate race relations in light of the Atlanta child murders occurring at the time.

Fearing a NAACP-threatened boycott, the studio shelved the project without telling Fuller. Infuriated by Paramount’s action, Fuller moved to France and “never directed another American film.” White Dog was theatrically released in France and the U.K. to positive reviews in 1982. The first time the movie appeared in wide release in the U.S. was as an edited-for-TV movie for cable in 1983. NBC planned to broadcast White Dog in 1984, but scrubbed the plan due to continued pressure from the NAACP. At best, some people may have caught the flick in the subsequent years in art-house movie houses and at film festivals. Finally, the Criterion Collection released White Dog on DVD in 2008.

The ensuing Q&A became a fascinating discussion of why the dog would have become such a trigger for the NAACP’s fear. As Ego Trip’s Gabriel Alvarez noted, “Using the dog to symbolize racism is interesting because the dog is seen as part of family.”

One audience member said that, because of the furor surrounding the Michael Vick dog-fighting scandal, the pop consciousness around dogs and African-Americans, especially men, would drastically alter White Dog’s reception if released today — especially in light of Keys having to kill the dog at film’s end. Other audience contributions from that night:

• “The symbol of dog is ingrained into the consciousness of Black people with the civil rights movements with dogs and hoses.”
• “I remember hearing about an MLK park where some people wanted to have a dog park.  But it became a big issue along racial lines.  What I found out was Black people felt it was disrespectful to have a dog park in a park named after MLK due to the history of dogs and Blacks and violence.”
• “What the movie shows is that there’s a need to be truth and there needs to be reconciliation. What I’ve noticed is that young white people need to be aggressive with their parents regarding racism.”
• “I want to know from white people how can white people facilitate change….”
• “By creating such things as film. Yeah, the film is cheesy, but there’s also a film language that Fuller uses.”
• “What people need to do is to understand and deconstruct that the country has been founded on inequality.”

The discussion turned to how the film dealt with racism itself, a topic I engaged in with Jefferson:

Me: It was a very ’80s message film.
The moderator responded that White Dog was “straightforward” about white racism.
Me: It was straightforward because it was the ’80s. So the racism was (more) obvious, so the message was obvious. Now it’s morphed into Glenn Beckian ‘I can be racist, but don’t call me a racist.’
Jefferson: Stylistically, it’s very 80s. But it was ahead of its time. Fuller’s career was interesting. He was known for a lot of B movies but tried to sneak in social issues. Yes, it’s 80s exploitation, but there are powerful moments, like the child getting whisked away while the dog is hunting.
Me: But saying that it’s very 80s isn’t a slag, but a simple observation.

After the Q&A, I shared my opinion with Gabriel that every decade has a “message” film about racism that is reflective of not only of time period stylistically, but also where ideas about racism were and are. The 80s had White Dog and John Sayles’ Brother from Another Planet. The 90s had John Sayles’ Lone Star, Anthony Drazan’s Zebrahead, and Tony Kaye’s American History X. All of them were “race message films” that were very much of their time.

Exiting the theater that night, I noted the strange irony — and hope – of the series being housed in an indie theater located in the nexus of white-gentrifying Harlem. Perhaps this series is a good tonic, if not a great meeting point, for whites and the PoCs left in Harlem to gather to talk about the transitioning nabe and how well-off whites gentrifying it isn’t simply viewed as a “the neighborhood changing” so much as a blithe takeover, fortified by unaddressed white privilege, of a perceived spiritual and physical home of some Black people and our allies in the US and the world. However, considering that two white couples who came to watch the flick left as soon as the film was over—and, as a result, tipped the Q&A audience to majority people of color. We’ll see.

The Maysles Cinema crew wants to take their “I See White People” series on tour. Next stop: Brooklyn, NY.

We do the best we can with what we have. All those who aren’t happy, you’re always to go back and ask for a refund … I apologize for being late, but there’s a lot that goes on to get this out to you.
- Lauryn Hill, Dec. 28 performance in Brooklyn

By Arturo R. García

While not being race-centric per se, I did want to hear from the Lauryn Hill fans among us – especially if you went to the Dec. 28 show that started more than three hours late.

After some fans booed Hill when she finally took the stage – On The Red Carpet has video here – she said, “I spent my entire 20s sacrificing my life to give you love. So when I hear people complain, I don’t know what to tell you.”

But the question that’s been sticking in my mind since reading about that show is this: given that people went to see her in the wake of the snowstorm that hit New York over Christmas weekend, and the economy being what it is, when does fan expectation become entitlement? And when does showmanship cross over into self-indulgence?

Because rest assured, nobody’s saying Hill is alone in extending shows into after-hours territory. I’m sure we’ve all been to concerts that started way too late and went too short. My worst? Nelly: Did a 40-minute medley of a “set.” Weirdest? George Clinton: three-hour jam session by his band followed by a two-hour, eight-song jam led by Clinton himself.

To be fair to Hill, her New Year’s Day show in Manhattan, which, as Steven J. Horowitz at The Boombox wrote, was advertised with a more-plausible sounding 11:30 p.m. start time, went better – although not necessarily more quickly:

With fans packed from wall to wall, things were looking up when four of the former Fugee’s children — Selah, Joshua, John and Marley — suddenly appeared on the balcony to watch their mom in action.

But even they had to kill some time. After DJ Rampage warmed up the audience with cuts from Notorious B.I.G., Jay-Z and Snoop Dogg, Ms. Hill’s girthy backup band — consisting of three guitarists, three keyboardists, three backup singers, a DJ, a drummer and a bassist — assumed their positions at 12:30, with the woman of the evening finally emerging to a grateful crowd, treating them to a spicy two-hour performance of strictly classic material.

But … well, put it this way, if I coughed up a minimum of $95 to see somebody play the Blue Note tonight, and then found out the show was delayed because, say, their manicure didn’t dry, that would be enough to put me off investing in their shows again. Or is that asking for too much?

At a recent performance, Jay Electronica asked his audiences “Do women like to be choked during sex?” Apparently, he asks this question at every show, and is conducting an informal survey so that him, his DJ, and Nas, can decide a $20,000 bet on the issue on December 25th.

Nas says all women like to be choked.

TJ the DJ says only some do.

And Jay says, we all do, but in varying degrees.

I say, “they are all a bunch of a–holes.”

They aren’t a–holes because they like erotic asphyxiation. A whole lot of folks are into that, and I’m not hating. If this was a conversation about the range of practices that are pleasurable for women, then as a feminist, I would be down for that conversation.

But there’s a bet on it, so I wouldn’t bet on it.

Jay, Nas, and the DJ are not at all interested in female pleasure. This is a battle over whose dick is bigger. Plain and simple. Anytime money exchanges male hands in a contest over what women like in the bedroom, the potential for sex positivity and female empowerment becomes nil.

Yes, we should be able to talk freely about lots of different kinds of sexual expression, BDSM (bondage/sado-masochism) included. But Jay Electronica’s quip at a different performance that Redman says that some women like to be punched in the ribs, is troubling.

Recently, there have been a few feminist-identified Black men who are publishing work which claims that feminists of color, particularly Black women, are parochial on sexual issues, and that we see all forms of risque sexual practices as problematic. Undoubtedly, many of these brothers will watch this clip and conclude this same thing.

But this isn’t about sex positivity. Look at the terms of the bet. How can any three men ever determine what “all women” like? At the moment that this becomes about generalizing female sexual practices under one banner, it no longer becomes about women, but about men’s idea and projection of who they would like us to be. Moreover, clearly Jay, Nas, and TJ the DJ are having a Lil Wayne moment, RE: they just “wanna f-ck every girl in the world.” Because that’s the only way they could reasonably determine the truth of their statements.

Jay also engages in a troubling fetishization of foreign women. “Women in the states” don’t like choking. But women “overseas” love it. Really?

Back in Seattle, Jay polls the crowd. Only a few women admit to liking the practice. But almost all the men in the crowd do, a disparity to which Jay responds, “it’s a whole lot of women getting choked against their will.” And then…raucous laughter.

A courageous sister yells back, “that’s not funny.” (3:25) Jay and the crowd immediately silence her. He says, “it’s not supposed to be funny,” as he’s catching his breath from having a good laugh on stage. Then he quickly organizes a crowd chant, “we know it’s not funny. Relax.”

How many women have been gently coerced into sex they didn’t want to have under an insistent chorus of “just relax”?

The dismissive, mocking reaction to that sister’s disruption of the space, tells us all we need to know about what our reaction should be. She proved the point. Some sisters don’t like it…and Jay’s inability or lack of desire to hear her point of view after he had just invited audience feedback, suggests that he and his boys are interested in a very particular narrative of female sexuality.

Jay also admitted that there were underaged folks in the crowd, and then he recklessly proceeded to promote irresponsible sexual messages like

• Women don’t really know what they want in the bedroom
• It’s up to men to help us “figure it out” [and a little financial incentive wouldn't hurt]
• And many of us are lying anyway, given the disparity in crowd response

Sounds like a recipe for rape.

Or at least some misguided, tragic, unfulfilling teenaged sex. If the sexual plot line in the Black male coming of age tale, The Wood is any indication, betting is a critical part of male sexual socialization. And it seems harmless.

But there are a whole lot of young women and grown women, who are the literal conquered booty in these conquests, who beg to differ. I am one of them.

The bottom line is that Jay needs to do better. He should apologize. And since it is the season of giving, he and his two stooges should put their money where their mouths are, and donate that twenty thou to some initiative that empowers women and girls who are sexual violence survivors. Bet.

By Guest Contributor Eric Arnold, cross-posted from Colorlines

I am hip-hop!—KRS-One

I am Oscar Grant!—anonymous graffiti

As the Oscar Grant saga has played out over the past 22 months, the Bay Area hip-hop community—a multi-ethnic, multi-generational coalition of musicians, visual artists, activists, students and ‘hood kids—has stood at the forefront of the movement to hold police accountable for his death. Within a day of the New Year’s morning 2009 shooting, Oakland rapper Mistah F.A.B. and singer Jennifer Johns recorded a tribute song, which addressed not only the shooting, but the larger issue of violent deaths of young black men at the hands of police.

Over the past months, F.A.B. and Johns’ initial response has grown in the hip-hop world to encompass rallies, benefit concerts, panel discussions and lectures, spoken word ciphers, blog and vlog posts, even bike rides in honor of Grant’s memory. When former transit cop Johannes Mehserle’s trial was moved from Alameda County to Los Angeles, youth activists and organizers in L.A. picketed daily in front of the courthouse. It’s not a stretch to say that Grant has become the Lil’ Bobby Hutton of his generation—a young black man, killed by a police bullet, who has become representative of a larger struggle for self-determination.

“People have kept Oscar Grant on the public’s mind,” says Boots Riley of the Coup.

So, why? What has made Oscar Grant so resonate within the hip-hop community?

For one, as Riley says, “There’s no sidestepping the egregiousness of the act. It was a brutal murder.” But Grant’s youthfulness also can’t be ignored. Just 22 when he was killed, Grant was part of the hip-hop demographic. When other youth looked at pictures of him, they saw themselves, their siblings and their friends reflected in his toothy grin, black hoodie and watch cap.

Police accountability has long been a theme in hip-hop. For decades, rappers have decried racial profiling, brutality and corruption by law enforcement officers. Yet those efforts have been undermined on a national level by rightwing coalitions whose targeting of gangsta rap has also caught activist emcees in their crosshairs. By focusing on violent, sexually explicit lyrical content, hip-hop’s critics have muddled rap’s accountability message—while major labels, commercial radio and cable TV have shied away from promoting political themes in rap. As Mistah F.A.B. says of his Grant tribute (“My Life”), “The major corporations who have the ability, they’re not gonna play a song like that. That’s the last thing they want to do, is rally the troops.”

But while hip-hop’s engagement around police accountability may not have coalesced into a national movement, it has taken hold in the Bay Area’s activist-infused environment, where social justice and hip-hop have long overlapped.

The Bay’s unique combination of street-level organizing and numerous independent hip-hop groups that are unafraid to express themselves politically has come together around Oscar Grant. According to Riley, “The organizing hasn’t really stopped.” He adds: “I don’t accept this idea that people are apathetic.”

The legacy of Black Power is well-evident in Oakland, where ex-Black Panthers have become parents, in many cases, of hip-hop generationers. Add the Bay’s history of radical labor and student protest movements, and you have an explanation of why its hip-hop community has maintained a grassroots awareness and political consciousness not always present in major urban areas.

The Panther influence has clearly rubbed off on rappers like F.A.B., who says he recorded the Grant tribute out of respect and concern for the community. “Instead of going out and ignoring [the issue],” he says, “I felt I needed to bring awareness to it outside of Oakland, Calif., and outside of the Bay Area.”

F.A.B. adds that while he’s known for his street anthems and party songs, “There are many people who don’t know that I do conscious songs, uplifting songs, community awareness songs.” His tribute to Grant, he says, “got great reviews from family members and close friends of his.” And he certainly helped bring national attention to the cause by wearing an Oscar Grant t-shirt during an appearance on BET.

But F.A.B. wasn’t just riding the Grant bandwagon to boost his own fame. He solidified his grassroots status by appearing at a rally held at the site of Grant’s death—the Fruitvale BART station—a week after the incident, when the community was still in uproar and before Mehserle had been charged with a crime.

Other local musicians, including Zion-I and Kev Choice, volunteered their services to perform at subsequent justice rallies held in downtown Oakland, where many of the crowd donned Oscar Grant masks. I am Oscar Grant.

When ranks of police assembled in the Oakland streets, a young, dreadlocked African-American man bravely confronted a phalanx of officers dressed in full riot gear. Laying down in front of the officers with his hands behind his back, symbolically recreating Grant’s last action before his death, the gesture made for a powerful image, one widely circulated by mainstream media outlets. It was a scene reminiscent of the student who faced the tanks at Tiananmen Square—with a hip-hop twist.

In the weeks and months that followed, F.A.B. was joined by many other Bay Area rappers who also referenced Grant in song, from socially-conscious artists like Choice, Ise Lyfe, Native Guns, D Labrie, and The Burnerz to turf-identified rappers not usually associated with cries for justice, like AP.9 and Beeda Weeda. Instead of telling us to dance, sell drugs, get stupid, or wear clothes we can’t possibly afford, the emcees who tackled the Grant topic were  reporters for GNN—Ghetto News Network—giving listeners a street-level perspective sorely lacking in much of the mainstream press coverage.

Their influence eventually extended across cyberspace—over 2,400 YouTube videos were tagged with “Oscar Grant” and everyone from Pittsburgh rapper Jasiri X to the Vancouver website GetGrounded to the Helsinki music blog Multitunes weighed in on the issue. As the legal process played out, constant hip-hop updates reacting to new developments in the case—from the shooting to the verdict to the sentencing—kept the community engaged.

Grant’s memory was also kept alive by the efforts of numerous graffiti artists; the motto “I Am Oscar Grant!” began appearing all over Oakland, along with aerosol renditions of Grant’s now-iconic face. One of the more notable visual representations of the Grant movement was a huge mural painted on plywood sheets—ironically erected to deter possible rioters—at the Youth Radio offices at the corner of 19th Street and Broadway. The mural’s creators, known collectively as Trust Your Struggle, are a multiethnic group of artists, activists and graphic designers who had painted another mural in New York after they heard the news of the shooting.

Another example of hip-hop activism around Oscar Grant has been the numerous community-engaging events thrown by West Oakland non-profit Bikes 4 Life. In July, B4L’s annual “Peace Ride” led a 300-strong contingent of cyclists to the Fruitvale BART station for a candlelight vigil.

“We see ourselves as agents for change,” explains B4L founder Tony Coleman. “Everything that we do, since we hip-hop, it just has that flava. And we use that to our benefit, because we’re able to reach those other folks that are also a part of that hip-hop culture.”

What differentiates Oscar Grant from Bobby Hutton, Sean Bell, Amadou Diallo, Michael Stewart, Aiyana Stanley-Jones and the many others who have died at the hands of police is the fact that his death was captured on video and posted on the Internet for the world to see. This, too, speaks to Grant’s relevance to the hip-hop generation.

Since its inception, one of hip-hop culture’s underlying themes has been repurposing technology as a tool for community empowerment. In an age of cell-phone cameras, social media and viral Internet memes, technology in the hands of the people has the potential to impact both the legal system and mainstream media perspectives—as the Grant case has shown.

The emergence of eyewitness videos depicting the events leading up to the shooting, as well as the actual incident, not only fueled public outrage, but changed the tone of media reportage around the case. Had Karina Vargas and the other BART passengers who documented the events that fateful New Year’s Day acceded to police demands to hand over the footage, it’s not only possible, but probable that Mehserle never would have been brought to trial.

During the trial, defense attorney Michael Rains’ tactics were fairly typical of such cases. Grant, he seemed to argue, was a petty thug whose disobedience caused his own death. But the most powerful testimony of all remains in the public mind. Over and over again, civilian videos have contradicted police testimony. Grant’s uncle Bobby Johnson has said the picture taken with Grant’s own cell phone, showing Mehserle with his Taser drawn minutes before he un-hosltered his handgun, is what ultimately brought some measure of justice for his nephew.

Mehserle’s conviction, even for the minimum charge of involuntary manslaughter, will be remembered as a win for the police accountability movement. But it’s also a win for the hip-hop community. The fact that hip-hop has continued to organize around Oscar Grant for almost two years restores faith in the culture’s ability to promote social change, if not systemic reform.

By Guest Contributor Jenn, cross-posted from Reappropriate

Nicki Minaj is hip hop’s newest “it” girl — so why does it seem like her schtick has been done before? Oh, that’s right, because it has.

Minaj is a caricature of Lil’ Kim, taken even farther to the extreme than even Kim would find comfortable. After ditching the rainbow-coloured wigs of her early days, Minaj has fully adopted the hypersexualized, “poseable Black Barbie” look that Kim made famous. Like Kim, Minaj bares skin to sell shitty music to kids who can’t remember the good stuff: a close listen to her music reveals the uninspired, nonsensical lyrics, pedestrian sing-song hooks, and excessive reliance on Auto-tune that has come to characterize hip hop music today — something I like to call “The Drake Effect”. No wonder Kim is furious: Kim was actually a talented lyricist who, for better or for worse, found a way to sell her music to a sexist music industry. To her credit, Kim was a (perverse) representation of sex-positive feminism, which becomes clear when one juxtaposes her hypersexualized style with her lyrics. Minaj, on the other hand, is the Barbie doll who, in one song, craves the love of a man she compares to Eminem.

And I think I love him like Eminem call us Shady
When he call me mama, lil mama, I call him baby

That would be a sweet thing to say, too — if Eminem weren’t the poster-child for recovering drug addicts and domestic abusers right now.

The feminist in me is practically climbing the walls: are we really okay with the idea that two of the most popular female hip hop artists of the last several years — Lil’ Kim and Nicki Minaj — are glorifying themselves as life-sized Barbie dolls? I mean, the bimbo and body image issues alone are enough to make anyone shudder — and we haven’t even scratched the surface of the icky, RealDoll factor. Someone pass me my Queen Latifah.

Okay, so to be fair, Minaj isn’t totally biting Kim’s style. She has put her own unique spin on Lil’ Kim’s Barbie persona — except, it’s really not unique at all. Unlike Kim, who was satisfied with latex body-paint, Minaj is drawing from Asian cultures to exoticize her look. Call her Orientalist Black Barbie, because Minaj has egregiously stolen from various Asian cultures in two of her last music videos.

First up, Minaj teamed up with Michael Jai White in this “Memoirs of a Geisha“-inspired music video directed by Hype Williams, for “Your Love”:

The plot of the video: Michael Jai White is a samurai who runs an all-girls martial arts school. One of the girls has lusty, lusty thoughts for White. But, White only has eyes for Nicki Minaj who, I-shit-you-not, simultaneously breaks some cement blocks with a karate chop while giving Michael Jai White a completely doe-eyed, I-don’t-have-two-working-neurons-to-rub-together look, all at the same time. Because guys dig women who can simultaneously kick your ass while not knowing how to form a multi-faceted thought.

So then, stalker girl challenges Minaj to a slow-motion ninja fight which was clearly choreographed by a five-year-old. Minaj is killed, and Michael Jai White screams “NooooooOOOOOOO!!!!” as the camera pans away. Because apparently guys only dig women who have the appearance of being able to kick ass, not women who actually can kick ass.

The Orientalism of the video is so obvious as to not really warrant much further commentary: the Yellowface eye makeup to give the appearance of slanty eyes; the excessive use of silk in every goddamned scene; the terrible ninja-inspired sword fight; the Daisy Duke kimonos that would cause an oba-san to suffer epileptic convulsions — the whole video is like an Asiaphile wet dream.

Not content, apparently, to just appropriate Japanese culture, Minaj just released a second music video that appropriates a wholly different Asian culture. In her collaboration with will.i.am., both artists star in a very weird K-Pop-inspired music video for their song “Check It Out”:

This one has a gregarious K-Pop TV show host, lots of CGI Korean words popping out at you from the background (Angry Asian Man notes that they are a “crude” translation of the song lyrics), and — most bizarrely — an audience of Asian Stepford Wives in the studio audience. These women all wear sunglasses and short black dresses, and move in unison as they robotically watch Minaj and will.i.am. drop some acid on the soundstage; at the end, they methodically clap, as if all their brains have melted out their ears after being subjected to three minutes of this inanity. Is the audience an intentional (or unintentional) reference to Asian conformism, or to more of Minaj’s I-don’t-think-for-myself Barbie shitck?

What annoys me the most about these videos isn’t how they have ruined two favourite songs of my childhood — Annie Lennox’s “No More ‘I Love You’s” and The Buggles’ “Video Killed The Radio Star.” No, what annoys me the most is how we’ve seen female pop stars do Minaj’s Orientalist bullshit before: Gwen Stefani, and Madonna before her, have borrowed heavily from Asian culture, with little regard for the authenticity or appropriateness of their actions. It sucked then, and it sucks even more now that Minaj thinks she’s stumbled upon something unique and clever. Asian cultures have a rich and varied history, but in these videos, they are appropriated with as much depth as the Auto-Tune of the songs themselves, and regurgitated onto each scene as little more than a superficial, stylized, exoticized patina.

With Minaj apparently in the middle of an East Asian cultural tour, one wonders how her Orientalist ADD will manifest itself next. Next stop: Chinese opera? Indian Bollywood? Thai weddings? I should start a pool.

And, how long is it going to take for someone to make the Nicki Minaj version of “Aren’t Asians Great”?

By Guest Contributor Naima-Ramos Chapman, cross-posted from Colorlines

In their new music video for “New York is Killing Me,” Gil Scott-Heron and director Chris Cunningham turn popular characterizations of the Big Apple completely on their heads. The video, which was presented at the Museum of Modern Art in Midtown Manhattan last week, has one simple message: it can be a cold, brutal place. But as a legendary artist, Heron’s bitter break up letter with the city has prompted some of hip-hop’s leading players to openly challenge its evils.

In this case, it’s a matter of cleverly mixed mediums that get the message across. Heron’s raspy vocals blend well with Cunningham’s visuals of alternating shots of the city, all in constant, dizzying motion. Subway tunnels, bridges, extreme aerial long shots of the city cloaked in darkness create a menacing mood for viewers. They easily conjure up feelings of destitution and grittiness for a city that over the past twenty years has become largely represented as the entertainment capital of the world.

When I first heard the track, I immediately thought of all the other highly-touted New York anthems. There’s Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” and the recent Jay-Z-Alicia Keys collaboration “Empire State of Mind.” Those types of love letters contrast sharply with Heron’s gritty city journal. This is not a song about a glitz and glam New York whose “streets will inspire you.” According to Heron, it’s a lonely, cold, and bare city. For a die-hard New Yorker like myself, the song is a hard pill to swallow but once it goes down, it’s difficult not to sober up and realize how much this city’s inhabitants are hurting.

Of course, Heron knows a thing or two about overcoming struggles, and his words have inspired others.

Known best in the pop culture world for his spoken word poem “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised,” Heron has become a hip-hop favorite, tempting emcees like Nas and Mos Def to provide their own remixes to ‘New York is Killing Me.” Here’s Nas’ second verse that provide less abstract thoughts of the once enamored city. Nas spits:

And the gangs in New York are like wolves in sheep clothing Navy men off the ships in sidewalks strolling Ladies watching shopping stressing hard With maxed out credit cards and her depressing job Grey skies, anekatips winter’s cold US Open Tennis, charity dinners for the rich and old Giving nothing to the poor to strengthen their soul I can see why some get up and go, and move where it’s slow

And there’s plenty of unsettling realities in New York.

According the daily report provided by the Department of Homeless Services, there are 35,490 reported homeless people that are living in a shelter. Taking the point even further, 14,193 of those are children. According to the Coalition for the Homeless, in the past decade the rate of homelessness has reached near-Great Depression levels. And these numbers don’t include the many folks who go unaccounted for while living on the streets or in subways.

If one thing’s certain, it’s that Gil Scott-Heron is still aptly reading the pulse of America.

“Male rappers have such an amazing amount of power and influence. If they spend their time dissing African American women, then what’s expected of the people that are buying their records; its not much to be said for them to want to spend money to hear an African American woman speak her mind.”  — MC Lyte

Reader Tatisha sent in a request for us to cover BET’s My Mic Sounds Nice, saying “If that network could revamp it’s current negative image with one show, that was it.”

And was she ever correct. Over the long weekend, I caught up with my backlogged programming and found that in just one hour, the documentary managed to outshine all of the panels and conversations on hip hop and present a truly engaging conversation about the role of women and the evolution of hip-hop culture.

Ava DuVernay’s amazingly smart documentary relies on first hand testimony from those in the industry to provide the narrative, cutting between interviews with people like Eve, Trina, Joan Morgan, Chuck D, Roxane Shante, MC Lyte, Missy Elliot, Salt N Pepa, Rah Digga, Jermaine Dupri, Swizz Beatz, and Smokey Fontaine.

“Females don’t get as much exposure as men in hip-hop.” Eve provides a strong start, as the documentary begins to frame some of the challenges for women in the hip hop space.

Much of the discussion is reminiscing. Missy talks about crafting her first ryhme as a freshman in high school. A raft of women MCs including Roxanne Shante and MC Lyte reflect on how they got started in the industry, watching hip hop battles, providing answers to the assertions men made, or watching other women representing on stage.

MC Lyte and some of the other pioneers added moments of history in. Lyte traced the start of women in hip hop all the way back to Mercedes Ladies, then to Sequence and B. Angie B, who later became as neo-soul songstress Angie Stone. MC Lyte remembers Sha-Rock from the Funky Four and One More. Salt-N-Pepa wax on Roxanne’s Revenge, tributing Roxanne Shante.  Shante herself explains she was a “battle emcee…willing to battle anyone at any time without fear.”

Shante credits her willingness to go to war as a reason for her initial success. Salt N Pepa concurred, explaining “no one was trying to hear you unless you challenged someone one.” Battle rap was really how a lot of women were put on in the beginning, and its a sad reflection of our culture that this write of passage has fallen out of favor. But we’ll return to that in a moment.

Rah Digga observes how in that day, women had to rhyme like men in order to be taken seriously. Later in the doc, MC Lyte discusses studying her craft, and how she learned to rap from her diaphragm and not her throat. She demonstrates, and it’s hard not to notice how her voice also drops a few octaves, giving her that trademark depth. Was she subconsciously mirroring a male voice? That’s hard to say.

Jean Grae, looking nerdy-fabulous, talked about diversity – everyone in the game being themselves, and not feeling the need to conform to a mold. While women in the 80s had to prove they were vocal equals to men, visually speaking, women had a lot more options for presentation. The idea of rapper as eye candy wouldn’t come into vogue until the mid-90s, so women like Queen Latifah had a lot of fluidity with their images and could adopt a variety of images. Indeed, Queen Latifah came up often as a role model, with everyone from Lil’ Mama to Diamond to Medusa admiring that she claimed her own space “like an Amazon” and demanded respect.

Joan Morgan put the idea of women in hip hop in the 80s succinctly: “We thought of hip hop as ours – this wasn’t a male field and we were trying to break in.”

Most named the 90s as an era of change, where hip hop’s image of women stated to metamorphose into something completely different.

Lady of Rage talked about feeling pressured in as time went on to soften her look, to lose weight, to become more visually appealing, and all the female emcees echoed similar sentiments. They showed images of Da Brat at her debut and in the 1990s, noting that most women felt obligated to trade in their jeans, caps, and Tims for a more stereotypically feminine look.

However, the 90s wasn’t all negative – it was a time of redefinition for women. Kim Osario says it is hard to define a golden age of hip hop, but most women agreed that the mid 90s 90s was definitely a golden age – particularly in terms of framing the image of the genre.

In the 90s, there were dozens of female emcees signed. (A somewhat depressing graphic shows the faces of all the women who were being heard on the airwaves in the 80s, the large number in the 90s, and the handful that exist today).  Big Lez also talked about the crews, and how almost all camps had a woman signed. As Jean Grae noted “It’s almost chivalry – but it’s not.” Eve, who came up with Ruff Ryders, said she never thought about it, but the idea that a crew needed their “first lady” used to be considered a requirement.

Jermaine Dupri says many of these women were developed artists, and that the decline of artist development contributes to the thinning of the ranks.  However, Roxane Shante explains that being tied to a male dominated label meant you would rise and fall with the male reputations. Lady of Rage (famous for her afro puffs) talked about how at the time of her debut, Death Row Records was crumbling, which inadvertently took her down as well.

Salt mentions that how hip hop, period, is so male dominated, so masculine, that it’s just a difficult genre to survive in. Many of the established female rappers from the 80s said they were initially shocked at Kim & Foxy’s persona, but that led to what Jean Grae tagged as hip hop’s “sexual revolution.” Ultimately, due to Lil Kim and Foxy Brown’s lyrical skills and reclamation of the sexual self, it opened a new space for women to occupy lyrically.

However, to be unabashedly sexual brought about new problems, as well as a sense of liberation.  Smokey Fontaine points out that Kim strengthened the male fantasy because “you could kind of own her.” Big Lez points out how Kim appealed to almost every man on the planet because it was still an ownership fantasy, unlike Foxy’s I-could-take-you-or-leave-you attitude.  Aliya S. King pointed out how both Foxy and Kim were the sexualized rappers who can actually spit. And while both Foxy and Kim enjoyed massive respect from their contemporaries in the game, their legacy did give rise to the idea of emcee as eye candy.

Jean Grae talks about how sex sells, and in the 1990s that evoking one’s own sexuality switched from an individual preference to an industry imperative. Joan Morgan followed up by pointing out how the model of sex + rap sold, and became the model.

Yet, while everyone was trying to step their sexy game up, Lauryn Hill entered as another game changer -  which probably explains why why so many of us are still clinging to L-Boogie’s legacy nearly a decade and some later. Lauryn’s whole vibe and flow was being unabashedly her own, and there were heavy expectations put on Ms. Hill post Miseducation.

(Sidebar: Can I just say I remember watching this video on MTV and VH1 and wanting to be Lauryn Hill? From the hair down to the shoes to the city.)

The documentary spent a lot of time on the fall of Lauryn Hill.  People wanted Miseducation part II, and people were disappointed by the Unplugged album and many of L.Hill’s subsequent performances.  But what is interesting to note, MC Lyte, Big Lez, and many other women talked about how much respect they have for Lauryn to push back and preserve herself at the expense of her career. But…

“One person’s decade long break is another movement’s drought. Or tsunami.” – Questlove, on Lauryn Hill

Tiye Pheonix put forth a point that bears repeating:  L represented what is missing in hip hop culture;  to engage with that broader idea, we have to look at what is currently happening and not just mourn those who left the game.

The conversation then shifted to women and power within the industry.

Missy Elliot is the most commercially successful female emcee of all time. Her videos also helped her to stand out since she was amazing, unconventional, and unapologetic.  Much of Missy’s power, however, came from the fact that she is a writer, producer, and performer.  So why aren’t there more Missy Elliots?  Kevin Lyles said “there was no secret meeting to disempower women” but this is exactly what occurred, as women have felt the industry change the sharpest.

Chuck D explained that the industry basically said people have to sell millions. It’s a corporate decision, not solely reflection of the culture. However, the budget required to support a female artist is often presented as a reason why industry executives were unwilling to develop more women as talent. Trina and Kimberly Osario talked about the image, make up, hair, and how execs just made a budget decision, based on a bottom line.

Still, that line of reasoning struck me as strange.  They say men can wash and go – but these same labels still develop and push out low selling pop stars with the same types of budgetary considerations as female emcees. Why not the same treatment for rap stars?  I’m personally wondering if it’s an extension of devaluing black women on the corporate side.

As I pondered that, the camera cuts to MC Lyte, who pulls a power punch:

“Male rappers have such an amazing amount of power and influence. If they spend their time dissing African American women, then what’s expected of the people that are buying their records; its not much to be said for them to want to spend money to hear an African American woman speak her mind.”  — MC Lyte

Worrrrrd.

The film then shifted to one of the current queens of the game, Trina. As one of the few women left standing, Trina caters directly to her audience to stay relevant. Trina talks about her image being sexy, playing her position. She looks at it from a male perspective, saying:

“They don’t really wanna see you in the baggy jeans, they wanna see you sexy. It’s because you’re a female, I’m a dude, I’m not learning nothing from you, I just wanna see you. So whatever you’re talking about, I don’t really care, I want to see you…and that’s just real, that’s how it is.”

Nicki Minaj is brought up, and they talk about all the hoopla around Nicki Minaj, but how she’s appropriating the playbook of successful female emcees and creating a character. King notes that at the end of the day Minaj can rap. Still, there is a lot more hesitancy around Minaj’s legacy, as the women interviewed did not want to condemn her work.  However, the awkwardness was best captured by Phoenix who wondered “what is she creating?”

The documentary ends on a strong note, featuring all the women who participated in the doc as well as shouting out the names of many women who are currently paying their dues in the underground, who deserve a chance to shine. It’s a point that’s well made, and one hopes that BET commissions Ava DuVernay to continue this conversation.

From an interview with The Daily Beast:

“Don’t even get me started,” says the 60-year-old Johnson, who has since divorced and remarried (charmingly enough, to the Virginia circuit court judge who presided over her divorce). “I don’t watch it. I suggest to my kids [a twentysomething daughter and a college-age son] that they don’t watch it… I’m ashamed of it, if you want to know the truth.”

Johnson—who was at the Tribeca Film Festival this week for the premiere of The Other City, a searing, but ultimately hopeful documentary she produced about the AIDS epidemic in Washington, D.C.—says BET is making matters worse, and potentially contributing to the spread of AIDS, by promoting promiscuous, unprotected sex in raunchy late-night rap videos.

It wasn’t always that way. “When we started BET, it was going to be the Ebony magazine on television,” Johnson tells me. “We had public affairs programming. We had news… I had a show called Teen Summit, we had a large variety of programming, but the problem is that then the video revolution started up… And then something started happening, and I didn’t like it at all. And I remember during those days we would sit up and watch these videos and decide which ones were going on and which ones were not. We got a lot of backlash from recording artists…and we had to start showing them. I didn’t like the way women were being portrayed in these videos.”

Johnson says she no longer has any connection with BET. “I just really wish—and not just BET but a lot of television programming—that they would stop lowering the bar so far just so they can get eyeballs to the screen,” she says. “I know they think that’s what’s going to keep programming on the air; that’s what’s going to sell advertising. But there has got to be some responsibility. Somebody has got to take this over. Because with all the studies that are out there, this is contributing to an atmosphere of free sex, ‘I don’t have to protect myself anymore.’”

As much potential as there is for female empowerment in hardcore rap through women rappers’ embrace of the erotic, given the restrictive conventions of the genre, which force female artists to straddle identities of heterosexist sexiness and simultaneous masculinity, its full potential is rarely ever realized. In Minaj’s embrace of Lil Kim’s pussy power politics, she is also inevitably embracing, regardless of her actual intent and/or acceptance of rejection of the label, a controversial and rather contradictory ideology of feminism. [...]

Implicit in Minaj’s Signification onto the male narrative is a strategic process of identity construction, relying primarily on the male narrative and male voice to help shape the hardcore female rapper’s public image. Essentially, by engaging in dialogue with the male narrative, Minaj is aligning herself with male rappers and creating her identity as one of (pseudo)masculinity, an asset valuable to her role as a hardcore female rapper. It is within this genre that femcees operate as performers of gender and are most harshly judged by an injurious rubric of masculinity. These women are forced to negotiate “androgynous” identities as visually feminine, yet rhetorically masculine artists. [...]
In hardcore female rap, femcees are constant performers of masculinity who, between their Signifyin(g) on male [sexual] discourse and (re) appropriating sexist and misogynistic language, negotiate a treacherous space where a thin line exists between the subversion of male dominance via gender performance and affirmation of its patriarchal norms. [...]

If Minaj were genuinely interested in ascribing true power to her role as a woman and rejecting female rappers’ traditional dependence on the male voice for expression and validation, she would have drawn parallels between herself and powerful public female figures to construct her version of the new-age around the way girl. Grammy-winning female rap legend Lauryn Hill does just that. In The Fugees’ “Ready or Not” she likens herself to Grammy-Award nominated singer, songwriter, and civil rights activist Nina Simone: “So while you imitatin’ Al Capone/I be Nina Simone and defecating on your microphone.” (The Score, 1996) Essentially, “Hill champions a notion of…hip hop that is not rooted in the Mafioso fantasy of the day, but that goes back to the risky aesthetic and political choices of [Nina Simone]…Hill’s lyrical phrase represents a legitimate critique of the hypermasculinity and phallocentrism that pervades hip hop – a critique that is clearly gendered in its intent.” (Neal 247) Plainly put, Hill is a rare exception to the rule(s) as defined within the patriarchy of Hip Hop.

Within Minaj’s musical repertoire, her constant Signification onto the male narrative symbolizes her dependence on the male voice as a means by which to construct her identity. [...] The female body is rarely a site of empowerment except when it is being objectified to define female strength through heterosexist sexiness, which, displayed for male satisfaction, creates little power for women. (Azikwe 354) Because female rappers’ values lies in their ability to perform masculinity as well as be sexually objectified, when a femcee is not performing the role of the sexually available coquette nor the female thug, her power and agency are non-existent.

— From “Step Your Pussy Up: Nicki Minaji and the Signifyin(g) Tropes of Hardcore Female Rap,” by Menda Francois (Senior Thesis)

A couple of weeks back I had the pleasure of attending a Rap Sessions panel that discussed the question of women and their role in Hip Hop. One particular response by Dr. Raquel Rivera really stuck with me: “we are too fast to demonize the raunch. Don’t demonize the Raunch!” Joan Morgan (yes, THE Joan Morgan) followed up with an astute observation that American society does not have a discourse available for the erotic. My first response? “Ha! I love that!” The second response? “Yeah, that makes sense.”

What is our fascination with sexuality? Particularly, what is our fascination with the erotic and its impact on our understanding of blackness? (Hyper)sexuality often frames our understanding of men and women of color since our implementation into western culture. It is a gendered and oppressive space, often maintaining rigid boundaries and unilateral interpretation. For centuries, the black body existed primarily within the confinements of sexual expression. And, unfortunately, that space has not completely evolved. The Americanized erotic is transfixed within the slave discourse and white privilege that dominated the antebellum United States. Although I do not deny that women have been objectified via the infamous “male gaze,” a “one-up” that white women have over black women is the fact that at least their “honor” and “purity” granted them access to the coveted cult of true womanhood. Their bodies and sexuality are considered worthy of preserving and being respected. Black women, however, have inherited membership in the cult of the freaknasty. Breeders, freak (a leek)s, Jezebels, and, as Abbey Lincoln suggests, “sexual outhouses of white men,” African American women have not been able to remove themselves from the perspective of a sexual lens.

This referential point has sustained itself in both white and black American communities. Because black sexuality is such a taboo topic, the push to avoid it sensationalizes this discourse and the imagery that accompanies it. One possible reason for the lack of erotic discourse available is the desire of black America to remove the stigma of sexuality from its identity. This silence bears an excruciating consequence: the continuation of a vicious cycle of misrepresentative sexual stereotypes and outside influence on the inner African American community’s understanding of identity.

Returning back to the idea of slave discourse and sexuality, there often extremities associated with categorization of the black body. For black men, the buck, brute, or Uncle Tom archetype covers the range of hypersexual to asexual. In similar fashion, African American women were categorized by the Jezebel, Sapphire, or Mammy. These representations have far from disappeared from American public culture. In fact, these proto-erotic images have transcended to reflect and evolve with (popular) black culture. Because we are now part of the Hip Hop Era, there is a Hip Hop Erotic, a gendered and emotionally charged space that all of its affiliated parties are forced to navigate.

“Don’t Demonize the Raunch!:” The Hip Hop Erotic
Hip Hop Culture has an intriguing way of presenting and reaffirming notions of black sexuality. The video vixen takes after the Jezebel while the thug is the hybrid descendant of the brute and buck. Even more fascinating is how the erotic is constructed: women’s sexuality is often encompassed in a bitter and angry space while men, also angry, present their sexual identity via a dominant and hyperviolent space (i.e. rape discourse). There are frequencies or reserved spaces that allow levels of visible blackness. These frequencies are especially noticeable for women in Hip Hop. It is obvious that the video vixen reflects the highest frequency of womanhood within Hip Hop culture. Their presentation reaffirms the suspected correlation between black women and hypersexuality. For female emcees, it is hypersexuality or obscenity. The Little Kims, Foxy Browns, Trinas, and Nicki Minajes fight to get more (radio) play. The Jean Graes and Mysteriouses (from Making the Bad Season Two) fight to be taken seriously without using their sexuality to validate their lyricism and authenticity. This lack of fluidity forces women to navigate through stringent spaces of extreme identity.

Because those lines don’t blur, it is problematic for our understanding and placement of women who try and straddle the fence (no pun intended). For example, how would we place Missy Elliot, a “femcee” who started off not being able to stand the rain in a big ass trash bag talking about YoYos ( I caught the double meaning)? She evolved into a femme fatal emcee, warning listeners about her distaste for minute men and tricks she could do with magic sticks and cho chas. In a way, Missy was a Hip Hop Mammy, often looking out for other artists (like Aaliyah, Da Brat, and the “mama” of 550 Music Group) and suppressing any trace of sexual identity. Missy, while multitalented, often had her sexuality and authenticity questioned after the transformation of her lyrical content because she aligned her music with the sexy. While not asexual, Da Brat followed similar suit (“So Funkdafied” to “Ladies Night” and “What Do You Like”). In order to maintain relevance and visibility, these talented emcees were forced to submit and learn to function within a recognizable space of hypersexuality.

Why is the erotic so enticing and prevalent? It is a sensationalized space that is often molded and shaped to fit the experiences and expectations of its beholder. The erotic space is a struggle between conservative thought (traditionalism?) and open sexual reflection (liberalism?). Sexuality is a fluid form of expression that is only a facet of the black American experience. Once this is accepted as a normative state of gender discourse perhaps we can transcend from viewing sexuality as a stigma of the black body to utilizing it as a tool for conversing about and complicating our understanding of blackness in America.

Earlier today, I was on the phone with Bacon Grits, chit chatting, planning my outfit, my day, flirting, and he asked me I had seen the Window Seat video? I continued looking for my fuchsia leggings, turned it on, put him on speaker, and continued to chat. I sat down in front of the computer half way watching, listening, and then I noticed, “Erykah Badu is stripping?”

Then I tell him, wait, is she going to get naked?

He says, oh you haven’t seen it, wait until the end.

We both sat there quiet as I listened, and watched. Absorbed.

The Evolving tattoo? **Done.

The awesome lace undies. ***Fancy drawls #somuchwinblackgirlwin.

Keep in mind that I have been bumping Turn Me Away (Get MuNNy) for the last four days. The fact that she says “Let me be your robot girl” had me in the air, as I have been on some #blackgirlsarefromthefuture since I got reacquainted with Janie and Their Eyes Were Watching God in January.

The video struck me for a few reasons.

First, American culture in general and pop culture specifically has never been a hospitable place for nude Black women. Let alone nude Black women making high concept music and music videos.

When I saw the video, I tweeted:

“When was the last time you saw a Black womens body and sensuality centered FROM her perspective in Pop Culture? ***waits.”

“Real Spit. Window Seat is THE embodiment of Vulnerable y Fearless. Given the historical treatment of Black womens bodies in pop culture. +And American history. Window Seat feels like a lightweight Corrective for “Venus Hottentott” and thousands of nameless video vixens.”

The second reason that video hit me in my gut because some of my work is on Black Women’s sexuality and pop culture. THIS was the first time that I saw a self possessed Black women express her sensuality, within in pop culture.

Black women’s bodies are ALL through rap videos, but their voices are muted. Interchangeable, silent bodies are how American Black women are presented to the world, globally, in music videos, by and large.

Think about it like this. If you watch Beyonce’s Video Phone you may feel interested in the costumes and the dance moves. However, watching Window Seat you feel propelled forward. #blackgirlsarefromthefuture. Full stop. You sit there wanting to know what happens next. The distinction is the level of both intimacy and vulnerability that one performance has that the other lacks.

As I watched Erykah Badu, I thought of all the semi-nude and might as well be nude women in rap videos whose names we will never know, and if we don’t know their names, why should we care about them and who they are.

And don’t give me that “no one is putting a gun up to their head” to be in a video shit. People love saying that, but d-boys that sell crack “just need to feed they daughter.” Miss me with those. Our choices are limited to our options.

The third reason is that the video reminded me of Renee Cox’s work, in its fierceness, boundary pushing and its centering of a Black woman.

As I wrote this piece, I remembered that Erykah Badu tweeted a week or so ago that she had done one of the most scariest things in her life. I noticed the tweet and kept it moving. I now wager that, that experience must of been this music video.

I thank her for this, because it is the ultimate in being both vulnerable y fearless, which many of you know are two principles, I try as hard as possible to live by, and that I encourage others to do as well.