Conversation Piece: What Would Ethel Do?

Okay folks, I'm stepping away (pun intended)  from my usual subject matter and turning towards something dear to my heart, my sorority and affiliation with the Divine Nine.  While many might argue that being a Black Greek is oxymoronic (save it for the comments, my Afrocentric brothers and sisters) a hot topic amongst my circle of friends is the state of our BGLOs (Black Greek Letter Organizations).  What's hot in them streets right now is the inclusion of greek step teams in every music video, live performance, and film (those bootleg movies like The Sisterhood and The Brotherhood or the wildly popular Stomp the Yard).  If you talk about an HBCU (historically black college or university) their existence is not validated without the inclusion of Black Greeks (c'mon, keep it 100, when you went to freshman orientation there was some sort of BGLO demonstration). What strikes me as most peculiar about our insane popularity (we know, we know, you want to be one of us lol) is not only the marketability surrounding the Divine Nine organizations, but the increasingly delapidated image that represents us.

If one were to gain an understanding strictly from our representation in the media as of late, we're just Gangland: the Bougie Edition.  The rash of bad publicity about acts of violence, embezzlement allegations, and focus on our extracurriuclar activities takes away from our original intent - the uplift of our commmunities and our civic responsibility.

Question one:What would (insert founders' names here) do?
Question two: if there wasn't stepping and parties, what would there be?

Feel free to weigh in. 

Let the Natives Speak: Our Fascination with Hood Politics

“Either they don’t know or don’t care about what’s going on in the ‘hood.” ~Doughboy, Boyz in the Hood



Where da ‘hood at?
Indeed, America is enthralled by the idea of inner city life. For many, the ‘hood is the gage for authenticated blackness. Of course, this is problematic in ways too numerous to dedicate to one blog. But, for this essay, our focus is the relationship between performance, identity, and actuality.


Symbolically, the ghetto serves a dual purpose – to inform an unknowing public and to entertain via humor or violent antics. In other words, the ‘hood is blackness raw and uncut. It is a forbidden zone for some and a land of fantasy for others. But, as Robin Kelley argues, the true voice of the inner city – those who actually experience its social circumstances firsthand – are often overlooked and silenced. Those social scientists who attempt to understand and categorize the ghetto as a functioning social space are often tainted by overgeneralizations and a minute sampling of black representation. “They [social scientists] do not let the natives speak,” Kelley argues. His usage of “natives” struck me as particularly odd. Is the inner city the last frontier for exploration and, to an extent, conquering by American society?


Historically, the ghetto was both a site of despair and the epicenter for civic action and change in black America. Richard Wright demonizes the inner city in Native Son (1940) and his pseudo-autobiographical Black Boy (1945). The term “laugh to keep from crying” rang strongest in the long running comedy Good Times. Does anyone know the entire theme song? If you’re really black or black-affiliated, you know. Or so says Dave Chappelle. On the other hand, Hoyt Fuller’s essay “Towards a Black Aesthetic” (1968) called for the detachment of blacks from white standards of art. He charges African Americans to focus the rebirth of black art and its appreciation in America’s inner cities. The Black Panther Party embedded themselves in metropolises like Chicago, Oakland, Los Angeles, and Atlanta and focused on the rejuvenation of African American inner city neighborhoods. Soul music and funk provided the soundtrack for these occurrences, with Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” and the original ‘hood theme “Inner City Blues (Makes Me Wanna Holler)” leading the charge.

With the crack epidemic, Reaganomics, and just an overall jacked up mantra, the 1980s refocused attention to the ghetto as a place where all hope is lost for those who enter. Rap music replaces Soul as the musical mouthpiece for black frustration in America’s inner cities. Grandmaster Melle Mel’s “White Lines (Don’t Do It),” Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “The Message,” and Public Enemy’s “911 (is a Joke)” spoke to the increasingly dilapidated state of urban black America.

The introduction of Gangsta rap, however, sparked a different response to the plight of the ‘hood. Primarily a California phenomenon, N.W.A., Ice-T, Too Short, Snoop Dogg, and other rappers on the west coast spoke to their own experiences of hoodlife. Violent and in search of retribution, Gangsta rap lyrics often spun tales of police murder (i.e. Ice-T’s “Cop Killer”), and homicide as a daily occurrence (Ice Cube’s “It was a Good Day” speaks about the absence of these occurrences as a hood abnormality). A by-product of Gangsta Rap, the ‘hood film, brought the violent lyrics of gangsta rappers to life. John Singleton’s Boyz in the Hood (1991) and Albert and Allen Hughes’ Menace II Society (1993) immediately come to mind here. What is so fascinating about these films – visual displays of nihilism and condemnation – is how they set the foundation for the understanding of all inner cities and, to extent, urban blackness.


While these rappers and the characters depicted in the ‘hood films were performing based off of a lived experience, along the way that truth became a fetishized reality for outside observers. The rise in popularity of supposedly hoodtastic culture – i.e. colored weaves and a gat (gun) at birth – became the standard for a generalized understanding of inner city life. In a spectacular scene from Paul Beatty’s The White Boy Shuffle (1996) the protagonist, Gunnar, auditions for a position as an extra in a music video by the fictitious rap group Stoic Undertakers. He is dismissed by the director because he is not menacing enough and not an accurate depiction of hoodlife. What is ironic about Gunnar’s dismissal from the set as an inauthentic representation of the ‘hood is the fact that he lives in the community where the video is being produced. He later comments on the making of the video: “carloads of sybaritic rappers and hired concubines cruised down the street in ghetto palanquins, mint condition 1964 Impala lowriders, reciting their lyrics and leaning into the camera with gnarled intimidating scowls. . .” (Beatty 77). Beatty’s observations mirror those of Kelley. The natives did not speak. And because of that silence, true hoodlife is undermined by an overexaggerated representation of fear and repudiation.


Todd Boyd’s theory of the hyperreal is useful in understanding the fascination surrounding the ghetto. He argues that the imagery of the inner city “creates a media image that directs attention away from the actual occurrences and thus put us in the realm of spectacle.” When we consume images and ‘hood stories via television, music, or film, we are not worried about the actual suffering of those who are exposed to those circumstances on a daily basis. We can simply turn it off or change the channel. What is problematic about using the representations that result from these assumptions is the notion that all black folks have the same experiences. We don’t. Therefore, it’s not plausible to use these overgeneralizations to gage our understanding of reality.


This is especially true for those who live outside an urban space. The block becomes the trap or the field. The fast sports cars become big bodies on ‘22s. And the need to distinguish experiences and outlooks becomes desperate. The string of ‘hood allegiance songs that spans the last decade (i.e. “I’m so Hood,” “Georgia,” “Raise Up”) represents the desperation to distinguish and validate experiential differences that challenge or reaffirm the status quo.


Let’s be honest for a minute here, folks. If there was no ‘hood (imagined or factual), rap would probably be non-existent or, at best, a branching off of R&B. Would a consumer public still be interested in a rapper talking about firing his butler or taking his car to get an oil change?

Prelude II - Think Outside the Bun(s)

I'm from a small city called Albany (or, if you're really from there, Awl-benny), GA. I rep hard and I rep often.  With that being said, I'm from the country. But we have the 'hood. 

The idea of location, space, and representation in rap music always intrigues me as a scholar and as a Down South Georgia Girl. This week, we're investigating the framing and construction of the term "ghetto" or "hood"  (whatever floats your boat), some variations, and how it impacts our understanding of blackness and identity performance. 

Sidenote: I'm still enthralled with the idea of the stripclub as the black man's boardroom.  It makes me question the construction of social acceptability and functioning spaces for men of color.  Mark Anthony Neal suggests that black men may make a living but do not necessarily live within the constraints of "contemporary polite society." And, of course, booty clappin' isn't exactly the embodiment of Miss Manners.  So, it would make sense for a marginalized body to meet in a marginalized space in order to be productive. This by no means suggests that you'll see Body Tap as the official meeting for a Forbes 500 company. It is also does not mean that all black men go to a stripclub for professional development. It is intriguing, however, to think outside the bun (pun intended).

What's your area code? Mine's 229.  See you Friday. Be easy, blog nation.

Ego Trippin' Something (Sasha) Fierce: Musings on Black Women in Music

“I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal/I cannot be comprehended accept by my permission” ~”Ego Trippin’,” Nikki Giovanni

I know I am breaking the code of Beyoncé by speaking on B out of the context of perfection.


 Music has always proven a viable outlet for any representation of blackness whether gendered male or female. The blues, for example, provided a voice for women of color to talk about those things too worldly for the church walls. Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, and Ella Fitzgerald were dangerous. They spoke to their passions, their pain, and their experiences of black womanhood. These women carved out a niche for the blues women depicted in literature– Shug Avery in The Color Purple, Ma Rainey in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, and Ursa in Corregidora are only a small sampling.


What the blues women started to fight, female rap and R&B artists continue to battle today. This constant struggle could be considered part of that call by Ursa’s mother in Corregidora to “make generations.” Generations of black women have tussled between the demand of communal, if not ritualistic obedience to social expectation and the desire to express themselves. Beyoncé Knowles is not immune to that toil. Her 2008 release I am…Sasha Fierce proves that.

The dual CD, which caters a disc a piece to Knowles’ performance personalities of Beyoncé and Sasha Fierce, represent the extremities of black women’s sexuality. There’s the ballad driven Beyoncé and the booty and body poppin’ Sasha Fierce. Here’s my question, folks: what, exactly, besides performance, is fierce about Sasha Fierce? A friend jokingly told me that Sasha Fierce is a drag queen’s dream because of her intricate dance routines and flamboyant attire. He made me think specifically about the music video for “Video Phone.” Lady Gaga didn’t stand a chance.


Like black men, women of color also battle the case of the extremities – the asexual mammy-esque figure and the voluptuous and exotic black Venus that craves only sex. Beyoncé presents both. Her ballads suggest love and sex are two different monsters. Beyoncé croons “I-don’t-have-to-have-sex-with-you-to-love-you” lyrics and Sasha Fierce spits “I-don’t-have-to-love-you-to-sex-you” tracks. Knowles’ music suggests the need to retain a critical distance from her performance character and her actual person.


Only Female in My Crew – The Woman Groupie/Emcee Debate
Stepping away from Beyoncé – and maybe not a minute too soon – the topic of sex and women in rap is nothing new. It’s misogynistic, it’s hypersexualized, it’s bad, it’s bad, it’s bad. Okay. We understand. Tricia Rose, however, argues in The Hip Hop Wars (2008) that although the majority of critiques about women and rap music are negative, game does recognize game. Rose suggests that women rappers who are highly successful through a mainstream, capitalistic lens use their sexuality to their advantage. In other words, “explicit isn’t always exploitative:” “even when such performers seem to be expressing women’s sexual power, they use sexually exploitative images and stories and sexually dominating personas similar to those expressed by many male rappers. They are hustlers instead of victims…they also rely on and promote male sexual fantasy based images of women as sexually voracious and talented in their ability to please men.” While Rose does go on to say that the same niche that female rappers like Lil’ Kim, Trina, and Foxy Brown carve for themselves is still entrapment in a patriarchal system, there is an acknowledgement of using sex to their advantage. This by no means suggests anything against the genuine lyrical talent these ladies possess. Rather, it is refreshing to hear observations that go against the victim complex often tagged to discussions of black women and rap music. What is striking about Rose’s observation here is the open-ended definition of a gendered difference between male and female hustling. Is it a question of “my hustle is bigger than yours,” or standards that are not universal for rap performers?

While Rose and other scholars focus primarily on the prototype of sex rap legend Lil’ Kim, I’d like to focus on Miss Nicki Minaj. I’m still trying to figure out my position on her. From her interviews it’s obvious Minaj is extremely conscious, on her game, and knows how to finesse any discussion. Her raps, however, fall into the “respect my sexy” category. She looks and sounds like a hoodtastic Barbie doll. And, while she may possess lyrical ability, it often sounds choppy and dumbed down. In rap groupYoung Money’s video “Bedrock,” the only way to distinguish Minaj from the video girls was her verse.


With that being said, Rose and T. Sharpley-Whiting’s analysis of the groupie fall into conversation here. In Pimps Up, Hoes Down (2007) Sharpley-Whiting suggests the increasingly vocal Hip Hop groupie (Ms. Steffans, I see you) and video vixens are staples in the continued existence of contemporary black masculinity. Sharpley-Whiting refers to the groupie as a dominant trope in Hip Hop: “whether we can verify her existence or she is merely an invention of a wanna-be hip hop player’s rhapsodic rap, the idea of the groupie is a powerful trope in hip hop culture. She is a metaphor for male sexual prowess, indeed, puffed-up black masculinity.” There seems to be a thin line between the hypersexual female emcee and the groupie.


Here are some similarities:
1.) They often affiliate themselves with or get their start through prominent male rappers or DJs. Lil’ Kim started with Notorious B.I.G. and headlined Junior M.A.F.I.A.; Foxy Brown held it down with Jay-Z and later with Nas' The Firm; Trina slipped and slid with Trick Daddy; Eve was the “pitbull in a skirt” with the Ruff Ryders; and now Nicki Minaj is the first lady of Young Money.
2.) In a music video, what distinguishes the woman rapper from the other women? This is especially prevalent in music videos done with male rappers. Some may argue camera time, but veteran video models like Melyssa Ford or Buffy the Body can have just as much if not more camera time than her after she delivers her stanza.
3.) Once they attempt to stray or break themselves from those established barriers of sexuality they are often stuck or snubbed into obscurity.


The commodification of the black body is prevalent in American culture. We want it – yes, it – male, female, queer, or straight. The voluntary consumption of black women in music and other cultural avenues hearkens back to the auction block. The auction block morphed into the manufactured space of mainstream production. Where do we go from here?

Prelude I

This week we're switching gears and crosshairs (lol). I'm marinating on Beyonce and Nicki Minaj...maybe I should change my address now? See you Friday.

Side note: Heard the Yo  Gotti "5 Star Bitch" for the umpteenth time yesterday. A couple of things sprang to mind for me: 1.) Why is Gotti's approach to gaining a woman's affection and judging her worth through materialistic associations? 2.) Why the hell are a lot of young women going out and getting  stars as tats? 3.) Five stars are often associated with hotels, motels, and holiday inns.  Didn't Luda say that's where you take....nevermind.

Be easy, blog nation.

LOL :-|

“I looooooooooooooooove Fisher Price!” – “LOL :),” Trey Songz

What do R.Kelly, Fisher Price, and Trey Songz have in common? I’ll wait.

I don’t have a problem with Songz or Kelly. I do, however, have a distaste for many of Trey Songz’s tracks. At the top of my list? The smash hit “LOL :).” While Songz and his collaborators Gucci Mane and Souljah Boy Tellem are legally grown men, this song screams Kiddie Corner. The introduction of the song, “I looooooooooooove Fisher Price” is voiced by Mr. Hubert, the fictional self-professed pedophile on the comedy Family Guy. The track itself sounds like the remix of the Reading Rainbow theme song or the song of the day on Sesame Street. While the line and song (assumingly) do not intentionally support the sexual exploitation of children, the correlation between the track (both lyrically and instrumentally) and childlike behavior are disturbing. These associations point to the categorization of Songz as a manchild, and, like I said in my previous post, he ain’t in the promised land.

Songz conceptualizes his masculinity through pubescent gestures and expectations. While it is his prerogative to express himself in whatever way he pleases, I can’t help but think about how he impacts our understanding of black masculinity in America. He perpetuates and enables the wayward assumptions of black men as sex-crazed, one dimensional boys. Think Big John from The Green Mile on the hunt for booty. Songz professes adult desires through a minimalized, abbreviated discourse. In other words, the sexual trysts and imagery presented here are childlike – short words, repetitive lyrics, and imagery. And this is not restricted to “LOL :).” “Say Ahh” fits the bill, minus the Sesame Street instrumentals. To add another layer to this portrayal of boy-like fantasies, the gestures Songz presents are considered non-threatening. For real, how gangsta is a smiley face? Does ":)" put fear into your heart? Ed Wuncler was onto something.

Of course, one has to consider audience. This song is huge with the tween to young adult demographic. We use Twitter, crackberries, and other technology repeatedly referenced in the song. AND, one has to consider how lyrical content in a song directed towards this market sets the mark for acceptable behavior by both girls and boys alike. Boys, profess your manhood through sex and a smiley face. Girls, sex and smiley faces mix. I’m exaggerating here, but where does the responsibility land?

Can it be called exploitation if a specific performance of black manhood is intentional? It wasn’t by mistake that “LOL :)” made it to the airwaves and was performed by Songz and company. It is not a mistake that Songz reinvented his look and, to an extent, his sound in order to present himself as a grown man with grown dreams and the desire for grown, ahem, things. Where he misses the mark is crooning adult lyrics over child-esque beats. There is no balance in the presentation of his physical body or the body of music he creates. Songz falls victim to the painful realization that one must live in one extremity or another in order to remain visible. There’s nothing to LOL about there.

The Jumpoff

What's the word good people near and far? Okay, I've talked about trappin', performin', and everything in between in 2009. Don't expect me to stray too far from that in 2010. Some of the postings this year will be quick opinions. Others will have that critical edge a scholar should have. In other words, I'm putting the stank on critical approaches to black popular culture and literature. I must have done something right. I got people's attention.

Be afraid.

First up: Trey Songz, Manchild (and he ain't in the promised land).

Be easy blog nation.