G.I.I.F.T. (Get It In Friday Thoughts) Vol. I

I. Frederick Douglass, Stop Snitchin’ Son!: Slave Discourse and the Stop Snitchin’ Movement



Frederick Douglass’ narrative is a powerful piece of work. You can consider him your first black male feminist (shoutout to Dr. David Ikard and Dr. Mark Anthony Neal!) While he spoke to the horrific conditions of slaves in Maryland  the one major characteristic that shines through Douglass’ narrative is the transcendence of being a slave into becoming a man. Something else that caught my attention was his refusal to disclose how he escaped from slavery: “I left my chains, and succeeded in reaching New York without the slightest interruption of any kind. How I did so, what means I adopted, what direction I travelled, and by what mode of conveyance, I must leave unexplained.” Here is an example of the Stop Snitchin’ Movement in 1838! Douglass refused to discuss his plan, which may have also been the plan for those runaway slaves enroute to the free states and Canada.


Where discretion was a survival technique in the 1800s, its Hip Hop descendant is….? I’m not quite sure what the point of the Stop Snitchin’ Movement is. The Boondocks aired an episode where Riley, keeping to the code of the streets (Chicago streetcode in white suburbia...comedy!), refuses to point out his friends for a rash of neighborhood robberies. In retaliation, Riley’s grandfather hides his bike “with the rims on it” and Riley frantically pleads with Grandad to tell him who stole it. Other examples would be the Stop Snitchin’ videos and merchandise that flooded mainstream culture with celebrities like Carmelo Anthony warning others “don’t be a snitch! Then you’re a bitch ass nigga!” (Sidenote: The Bitchassness Movement started by Diddy is its own blog.)


What is fascinating about the slavery snitch and its Hip Hop successor is that the concept holds steadfast. In both cases, the snitch is not respected. They are perceived to be a sell-out and disloyal to their people (whether racially or personal associates). And they are willingly telling valuable information about illegal dealings (remember, folks, hiding slaves or being affiliated with a runaway slave in any form was a crime in slave holding territories).


The context, however, changes. Jay-Z’s spits “I’m from the era where niggas don’t snitch/you’re from the era where snitchin’ is the shit” demonstrates a different contextualization of the snitch than in Douglass’ narrative. The most evident change is the shift of illegal activity – instead of bodies being transported, its the illegal dealing of drugs, murder, or gang affiliation. The criminal life is glorified and those who can correct the problem are ostracized or killed. Shows like Gangland and The First 48 reiterate that fact when speaking with witnesses to horrific crimes or a suspect’s associate. The first thing out of their mouth is “man, I ain’t no [insert expletive here] snitch.” Their names, identities, and voices are changed in fear of their lives. I don’t really understand the Gangland concept, though. They give the informant’s street name (the one that people know you by) and sometimes even show their face…but I digress.


I’m still playing around with ideas here but snitching as a trope is one pliable avenue to investigate the residual traces of slavery discourse and how it’s being expressed in contemporary black culture, especially in rap and Hip Hop.


II. Gucci Juice


I don’t knock Gucci Mane’s hustle. I can respect that. What I CAN’T respect is his lyricism or the lack thereof. Lemon Pepper Wings (WANGS), freeze cups, and bus schedules can only go so far. Dude is coonin’! And so is his boy OJ da Juiceman.


In my Gender Performance and Black Culture course we’re about to start talking about the coon figure. A plantation archetype, the coon is illiterate, inarticulate, and simple. In other words, he or she is an over exaggerated black stereotype that appeals to a non-black audience. Gucci Mane and OJ da Juiceman do that. They are Hip Hop coons.


While I find 2% of Gucci’s music somewhat tolerable, OJ da Juiceman can’t even finish his “ay!” catchphrase before he gets turned off. What most upsets me about Juiceman was his XXL online guest blog in August 2009. He literally spelled out what he said. While not saying anything at all. Not only does this reaffirm those stereotypical notions of blacks being unable to relay their thoughts through written expression, he is from the south. Southern blacks are fighting an uphill battle as it is. We’re not just backwards, beat-and-booty-driven. Our real lyricists are being overshadowed by those fools who are just following or contributing to the latest dance craze. Or speaking a whole bunch of uh-uh.


III. Sprite Stepoff


I saved this for last on purpose. Here’s my .08 cents. Yes, eight. Three words – Hot Ass Mess.


It started off decent enough. I was in attendance and had some great seats. We started at 6:00pm (don’t they know good stepshows NEVER start on time?! lol) and the events didn’t end until 2:00am. From start to finish, there were 20 teams. TWENTY! Fourteen of those teams were for the actual stepoff teams that Sprite sponsored. The good folks at Sprite must’ve forgotten that stepping is almost as sacred as rituals for any Black Greek Letter Organization (hereafter BGLO). They must’ve also overlooked the concept of having judges who are familiar with stepping and what to look for in a show instead of strictly celebrity judges who were judging simply because of their celebrity status or their affiliations. What Sprite banked on was the popularity and recent wave of steppers as a fad in American popular culture. This isn’t really anything new… the commodification of African American Culture. But you didn’t come to Red Clay Scholar for me to rehash what has already been discussed.


Greeks, I’m looking at us. As a woman of Alpha Kappa Alpha, I was appalled and embarrassed to be in attendance. I’m not going to comment on who should have won. What got me was the deplorable behavior by members of BGLOs who were wearing jackets, other (parapher)’nalia, and identifying themselves with XYZ organization while throwing racist slurs, fighting each other, and just being straight ignant (yes folks, the ultimate level of ignorance is IGNANT). During Zeta Tau Alpha’s performance, audience members who didn’t approve of a white sorority participating in the competition chanted “white bitches shouldn’t step” and boo’ed a great performance. Here’s what bothered me further: we were being taped for a show that was looking for some drama to pop off. And we gave it to them. I told ya’ll that Kum Bah Yah mentality was for the birds.


Food for thought: We are no longer just African American. We are international, interracial, and interconnected. While I’m not suggesting that ALL BGLO members think in such a manner, it’s a bad look for an overall network that is already under constant scrutiny. Let’s not give them something to add to that fire that’s already burning out of control.

Prelude VI: Smorgasboard (or However You Spell It)

I got a lot on my mind folks. I have T minus 5 weeks and counting until my doctoral preliminary exams.  I've been reading and writing, writing and reading and things are starting to run together. I'm switching up this week.  Cue my theme music.  I'm going in on three topics that have been  playing around in my head.  I'll keep 'em a surprise for now just to hold the suspense.  Here's a clue - Sprite started a Stop Snitching Movement.

After this week's' main post, I want ya'll to let me know which format you like better - the Going In Sessions or the Main Topic of the Week.  I'll stick to whatever you like like T.I. or mix up the two.  That's all I got for now.

See you Friday.  Be easy, blog nation.

President Drake: Hip Hop's Shifting Masculinity

“I knew having some fake persona would never work…I grew up on television. Google Me.” ~Drake, Vibe Interview 2009



Jimmy raps?!

Aubrey “Drake” Graham’s been around for a minute. He’s not some cat who just magically appeared and became a celebrity overnight. I remember my cousin harassing me on MySpace to check him out. I liked what I heard. But I really didn’t take him seriously. He was Jimmy. From Degrassi.
He’s being taken seriously now. One of the headliners of Weezy’s Young Money Clique, Drake is changing and has changed the game. His flow is nice. Aside from lyrical performance, is it possible that he is changing the branding of manhood in the rap game?

The folks over at Makin’ It Magazine struck up an intriguing conversation of Drake as rap’s Barack Obama. It’s not the first time President Obama has entered the Hip Hop realm. Byron Hurt created a fabulous dichotomy of President Obama and 50 Cent titled Barack and Curtis. I don’t know if the president has rhymes, but it is a fascinating topic to present the Barack/Drake masculinity dichotomy. In other words, can Drake be the Barack Obama of Hip Hop?

In Barack and Curtis, Hurt makes the critical observation that black masculinity is being defined in extremities of the hyperviolent and über-menacing or the effeminate and educated. That is problematic for black men who, already living on the fringes of American society, can exude characteristics of both 50 Cent and President Obama. In Hip Hop music, this “oppositionalism” is still very much a common and accepted practice. What was once called “Gangsta” renamed itself “Thug.” And what constitutes both ideologies is the necessary persona of the “bad nigga,” a nihilistic outlook on life and the possibility of legitimate success in a corrupted American social hierarchy. The distortions of the black male body and exaggerated expectations of masculine expression overshadow the need for a balanced portrayal of African American men. Because there is still a willing consumer market for such portrayals, there is a marginalized need for Baracks. Fiddies will do. What Drake’s forefront presence in the game is channeling, however, is a reconsideration of an unbalanced Hip Hop Masculinity.

In similar fashion to Obama, Drake is (seamlessly?) negotiating spaces of race and gender. He draws from Toronto, Canada and Memphis, Tennessee. He doesn’t deny his upbringing with his Jewish mother nor his Degrassi stardom. He equally heralds his experiences with his black father and his exposure to the experiences of the black American working class. All of them validated and heralded in his music.


But check his brand, folks. Drake’s performance of his multiethnic heritage makes him stand out and retain visibility in a shifty/shady manufactured space. Mark Anthony Neal astutely argues that there is need behind a black man’s brand (identity) to have an opposite for functionality: “[they] are dependent upon each other to lay claim to that which their brand doesn’t – and, quite frankly, can’t – allow.” So, if 50 Cent is Barack Obama’s foil, who would make Drake relevant? Weezy (Lil’ Wayne).


“No Ceilings:” Lil’ Wayne and Drake


Lil’ Wayne is an enigma. He’s a trickster figure, street philosopher, and veteran in the game (a decade and some change). In a pre-Grammy interview with Katie Couric, Lil’ Wayne certifies himself as a threat – “I’m a gangsta, Miss Katie. I do what I want.” And his latest criminal woes complement that sentiment. While he’s undergone a lyrical transformation – transitioning from writing his rhymes to flowing from the top of the dome – physical perceptions have only changed with the addition of tattoos. Appearance wise, Weezy embodies the dark menace of the bad nigga America fears. Self proclamations as the best rapper alive and references to his status as an alien demonstrate Weezy’s high self-esteem and an inherent belief that his talent and blackness marginalize him from the rest of the world. The third tier to that could be his masculinity.


But he’s a businessman. And Drake was the business. So he signed him with an unheard of bonus – two million dollars.


Drake and Weezy hold each other to their assigned duties outside of delivering ridiculous bars. While one may argue that Lil’ Wayne also has the capability to maneuver a variety of social-economically constructed spaces, he navigates those spaces through a specified lens of black masculinity. He is only acceptable because he maintains the performance of that boy from Hollygrove in New Orleans, LA. Inherently or inadvertently, Weezy is often restricted to perform within the manufactured space of thug rapper. His attempts to break free from those specified boundaries in the form of a rock album have gone underappreciated if not heavily criticized because it does not fall into the acceptable category of Lil Wayne, rapper. The same goes for his social commentary. “Misunderstood” on The Carter III, for example, is a haunting melody sampled from the song by Nina Simone. A tirade against the treatment of poor blacks in America, Wayne goes in for nearly ten minutes. His philosphyin’ on wax, however, does not reach a national audience. What does reach a national audience is “I’m a Gangsta, Miss Katie.”


Drake, however, navigates those spaces through being able to conform himself to differing stages of performance. He can pull from Degrassi or he can pull from a blunt. He can wear a suit or a fitted (hat) and still be perceived in a way that does not make his audience shy away from his message or his presence. It’s a definite possibility to see him as Hip Hop’s Obama. In similar fashion to the changing tide of identity politics and multiculturalism in America, Hip Hop is starting to slowly relent and allow fresh perspectives in. Bakari Kitwana suggests that Hip Hop is a moment, a reflection of the generation. Perhaps our generation is shifting to another standard of authenticated (black) experience. Usher in the likes of Kid Cudi and Lupe Fiasco.




Hip Hop is going back to the river. A change gon’ come. Drake’s leading that charge.

Mis(ter)understood: Forgiveness Politics and Black Masculinity

“The good that came from it was making me realize I wasn’t invincible. It humbled me” ~Chris Brown, Vibe interview 2009

I’m tired of Chris Brown. Let that man breathe. And I wasn’t going to say anything until I saw Vibe’s latest cover. An all black backdrop with the occasional white and yellow text, Brown commanded the picture with a question of “R U Still Down” on his black turtleneck. In a pose of mercy and humility (maybe even arrested development?), Brown visually succumbs to his convicted felon status. The all-black cover made me wonder what was being mourned: Brown’s career? His innocence? And while I pondered, Tupac Shakur screamed from the seams of Brown’s pleading gaze.


In what may be a brush of brilliance, Vibe pulls from the nostalgic yearning of Tupac’s fans with the reference to Shakur’s first posthumously released album. Another striking detail is the attempted alignment of Tupac’s troubled past and criminal woes with Brown. The visual blending of Shakur and Brown presents a peculiar dichotomy of suffering and masculine expression.


Can Chris Brown join the ranks of Shakur as one of our community’s tragic heroes?


The tragic hero by definition has an immense personality flaw that is agitated by fate and outside forces. Our fascination with celebrities' internal conflicts that manifest themselves in public displays of irrational behavior and actions often blinds us to the reality that they are human as well. Celebrity status, a frenzied and often biased media, and one’s own hubris set up these men of color for the okey doke. Once they fall from grace, they are reintroduced to the marginalized space of our understanding of blackness and masculinity. Chris Brown fell faster than Icarus.


What is most striking about the whole fiasco behind the battery charges, Rihanna, and even the possibility of redemption is that his young black male body bears the brunt of not only his own indiscretions but those of ALL black men. Many critics who protest Brown’s return to the public view force him to embody the actions of what is seemingly all black men who ever thought about or participated in domestic abuse. While I am by no means supporting Brown’s acts of domestic violence, it is problematic that he is the scapegoat for all that is wrong with black manhood. What are the requirements for forgiveness? And who is in charge of those factors?


Let’s return to the idea of paralleling Chris Brown and Tupac Shakur. The narrative of suffering shared by both artists through their music speaks to their lived experience as black men in America. What is most fascinating about Shakur (and probably the key to our fixation with his life) is his enigmatic outlook and borderline schizophrenic perceptions of his manhood and blackness. He was influenced by the mantras of the Black Panther Party and the streets of New York, Baltimore, and Southern California. He can sing the praises of black women (“Dear Mama,” “Keep Ya Head Up”) and cast them aside on the next track. Tupac showed himself as a Thug and a T.H.U.G. L.I.F.E. intellectual. We focus on the brilliance and internal conflict that constituted Shakur’s genius. We try to steer away from the rape conviction, incarceration, and negative media blitz surrounding his legacy.


For Chris Brown, we over look his dancing talent and focus on how he Ike Turner’ed Rihanna. Because of spite or a move to avoid bad publicity, Brown is banned from television tributes to Michael Jackson, the man Brown idolized most. What is our angle? Do we both embrace and despise Chris Brown because he reaffirms our embedded understandings of black masculine expression as violent, passionate, and unyielding to reason? Or do we simply see a black male body that is past redemption and can no longer be a functioning member of society?


Why is forgiveness biased? James Brown, Don Cornelius, and, to an extent, even Ike Turner got a second chance. We forgave Tupac. We only forgave Michael Jackson because he passed. Michael Vick is still searching for acceptance.




We can forgive Tupac, why not Chris Brown? I’ll wait.

Prelude V: Celebrity Over Night

I have a confession: I steal my hubby's "men's magazines." 

When I see XXL or The Source in the mailbox I run upstairs, lock myself in my office, and flip through the articles. It's tough, though, when booty cheeks almost poke ya eye out. But I digress.  (I really DO read the magazines for the articles). In the majority of the periodicals I've perused, rapper Drake always mugs me from the pages.

Drake has always picked my interest but I could never find a way to give my academic two cents.  When the fabulous folks at Makin' It Magazine  asked the question of Drake being parallel to President Barack Obama, the light came on. Can Drake be considered the epitome of flawless Hip Hop Masculinity? How does he navigate both the industry's expectations and social expectations of masculine performance in rap music?  

Last name ???? First Name ???? (LOL)

See you Friday.  Be easy, blog nation.

Niggatopia

DISCLAIMER (if I could make it blink, I would): The words being discussed here are often used in an inflammatory manner. Parental discretion is advised.



“You only a nigga because someone else wants you to be” ~Cee-Lo, “The Experience”

This past week I participated in a spirited forum entitled “Speak My Language.” In the company of great panelists, we attempted to navigate and direct the conversation into the black man’s “No man’s land” – the “N” word. Abandon all hope he or she who enters.

But seriously, the traumatic and often problematic existence of the term “nigger” has evolved into the term of endearment (?) “nigga.” While it’s an unspoken understanding that the “-er” version is embedded in a racist and painful discourse, the       “-ga” alternative is arguably bankrupt of racial insensitivity by those who use it. And it’s slowly leaving the circles of black America and seeping into the cracks of mainstream American society.

This begs the question: where does the nigga lie?

Let that Nigga Breathe: Space, Place, and "Nigga" Performance

If “nigga” is not a derogatory term, what exactly does it mean? Davarian Baldwin suggests that “Nigga” is a performance persona acted out by the “othered” body. By contextualizing this term through a non-racialized lens, one possible meaning of Nigga is a reference to any marginalized group of people(s).

For many, there are no differences or justifications for the term “nigga” because it is the stepchild of the forbidden “N-word.” That was especially visible in the NAACP’s efforts to give it a funeral. Our critical and leisurely lens of “nigga” or “nigger” often pulls from racial and gendered experiences. What, exactly, does a nigga look like? And where does he or she reside? In relation to gender, one aspect of today’s “nigga” represents a fetishized understanding of black hypermasculinity. There are often parallels drawn from the folkloric “Bad nigger” of slave discourse and the gangsta/thug nigga image from rap music during the Gangsta era and today. What separates the two is that the latter is a celebrated and often mimicked representation of black manhood where the former is a survival technique. R.A.T. Judy argues that the “bad nigger” slave is a frightening commodity that does not fear death but “embraces death...which indicates self-sovereignty.” The suggestion that a nigga represents a commodified body demonstrates both the contextualization of the enslaved black body as chattel and the contemporary selling of black bodies through rap music (both performers and video vixens). With this understanding it would be appropriate to place a nigga in a hood setting – whether imagined or actual. In a similar fashion to the nigga, the hood still represents for many an authenticated black experience. The “realness” that outlines expectations surrounding the hood community both marginalize and displaces this space in American society. By rebelling against any standard of blackness set by someone other than themselves, the nigga is the baddest thing (pun intended) walking. Why wouldn’t someone want to be referred to as such?

With all of the latest references to a multicultural nigga – wiggas, jiggas, and all those folks in between – why is it still a sore spot for black folks to hear it outside of the African American community? I don’t have an answer. One way to possibly approach this question is the push for Americans to be racially blind. That is, race isn’t as significant a factor in society’s functionality as in previous years. This notion is further pushed onto our laps by President Obama’s “Yes we (all) can” creed. But let’s keep it 100 folks. If everyone was all Kum Ba Yah, “Nigger” wouldn’t need a funeral and Niggas wouldn’t matter. Commentators wouldn’t say “I forgot the President was Black.” Race is still very much existent in America. To ignore this blatant fact is not only detrimental to a racially tolerant society, but also a hindrance to healing and progressing in interracial relationships. Now that’s gangsta.

Prelude IV: We Be Steady Mobbin'

Last week I was a part of a phenomenal panel that led a discussion on the use of AAVE (African American Vernacular English) or Black English in America. We covered everything from codeswitching (it's real folks, you better ask somebody) to the use of and differences between "nigger" and "nigga."  This part of the discussion got particlularly tense but nevertheless was still a necessary conversation.  This week, that's our focus.  We'll be discussing the contextualization of derrogatory words such as "the n-word" and their implications in American society where there is an increasing move for us to ignore race or, as Vijay Prashad observes, be blind to the color line.

Side note:
While I've been on Twitter I've met some of the most AMAZING and TALENTED people.  Their hustle is contagious. One of my new "tweeps" (Did I use that right? lol) sent me the music video/documentary of one of his aspiring artists Young Brodee.  His lyrics touched a sista.  And so did the video.

The song  "The Good Die Young" hearkens back to those Boyz in the Hood and hood film era tracks and imagery from the early-to-mid 1990s. Only difference here, folks, is that it was not fiction. The interviews and images of teen violence from across the country seamlessly flowed into the powerful lyrics Brodee delivered, a 'hood bildungsroman or coming of age story.  He does not glorify the 'hood discourse.  Instead, he presents an awareness and sad acknowledgement of the consequences for rebelling against this code.  One such infraction for many of the victims was "being at the wrong place at the wrong time" (a justification used by many for the horrific murder of Derrion Albert placed on YouTube); but when is there ever a right time to navigate a difficult environment where death at a young age is a coping mechanism instead of an epidemic?

When I get the link to the song, I'll post it.  Be easy, blog nation.

Suck My Clip: Queering the Black Male Thug

“Man suck my clip, swallow my bullets and don’t you spit!” ~Lil Wayne, “We Be Steady Mobbin’”

The (mis)representations of the black male body in American culture continue to haunt and dominate our often misconstrued perceptions of black sexuality and identity. This is especially true in our current discussions surrounding homosexuality and notions of manhood. Let me preface by saying that when the black male body is queered, it is not simply or specifically a homosexual reference. While this may occasionally be the case (and in this essay, it is), queering is also challenging one’s understanding of the status quo. Our associations and processing of images surrounding black men and their spaces of existence are often dictated through a heteronormative lens. So when a black male thug (a normal, highly recognized reference) is sexually attracted to men, this becomes problematic.

While shows like Aaron McGruder’s The Boondocks presents a satirized definition of thug homosexuality through the fictitious rapper Gangstalicious, HBO’s The Wire give us Omar Little.

This critically acclaimed series featured a plethora of characters that intersected at various points in each other’s lives, but Omar was a centralized nuisance. Anyone could be a target. His gun rained bullets freely and openly. He was a rogue with no allegiances but to himself. Omar was the most gangsta of them all because he was not predictable.

His character is an embodiment of both homophobic and homoerotic desires. Omar shatters the assumptions of black homosexual men as weak or effeminate. James Williams argues that as the “lone gay wolf,” Omar fulfills his role because the ‘hood that he inhabits is a homoerotic space. In the majority of other social constructs where homosexuality is marginalized, Omar’s sexual desires dominate and frame the expectations of the black male’s inner city existence. Williams’ observations can be extended to suggest that The Wire’s interpretation of the inner city as a hypermasculine space does not necessarily mean a hypermasculine heterosexual space. Omar is doubly feared. He is openly gay and violent. He uses his sexuality to intimidate those around him. Omar redefines masculinity through a queered lens, showing the black male gay body can also be a menacing presence.

It is interesting how the only medium available for the development of characters like Omar Little are in imagined communities where the scapegoat is the understanding that “this is just fiction.” With a limited discourse for homosexuality (especially in the black community), shows like The Wire and their representations of inner city black men provide enough critical distance where at least the prospect of a homosexual thug is somewhat accepted and open for discussion.


On the flip side of that observation also lies the notion that while fictitious, Omar is still subjugated to a realistic solution to his existence– his murder by a green, wannabe thug. On the surface, Omar’s death may seem demonstrative of the street code – “it’s all in the game.” Symbolically, however, Omar’s death signifies the silenced gay black man. He is returned to the shadows where, though lurking, he is still perceived to be a non-threatening entity.

Prelude III: The Farmer in the Dell

My future husband put me on to The Wire. It's his favorite thing to watch besides The Boondocks and sports. So, when he got the entire series in a boxed set, I had no choice but to hear about how "to keep the devil down in the hole." Everyday. All day. For three weeks straight. 

I became enthralled with the characters, especially Omar and Snoop.  Snoop brought the term "the baddest bitch" to a whoooole 'notha level. Omar's signature whistle, "The Farmer in the Dell," is a nursery rhyme. But when he whistles it, it becomes a menacing calling card. 

What most intrigues me about these characters is how they challenge our perceptions of homosexuality and present a contradictory image of black identity.  This week we're taking a look into the queering of African American thug culture.

The Gay Thug: Fact or Fiction?

Be easy, blog nation.