Reading Reflection (DUE in 24 hours from now)
Brittney Cooper
“Maybe I’ll Be a Poet, Rapper”: Hip-Hop Feminism
and Literary Aesthetics in Push
In�the�first�decade�of�the�twenty-first�century,�the�number�of�mainstream�blackfemale�rap�artists�decreased�drastically.�In�fact,�by�2005,�the�Grammy�Awards�had eliminated�the�award�for�best�female�rap�artist,�due�to�the�paucity�of�nominees.1
Simultaneously,�hip-hop�literature,�known�alternately�as�“street�lit,”�“ghetto�lit,” and�“lit�hop,”�written�by�black�women�and�marketed�to�young�women�and�girls�from ages�thirteen�to�thirty,�exploded;�titles�like�Nikki�Turner’s�A Hustler’s Wife,�sell�yearly in�the�hundreds�of�thousands�(Marshall,�Staples,�and�Gibson�28).�It�is�not�coinci- dental�that�the�entrepreneurial�spirit�that�has�characterized�black�men’s�rise�to�fame in�hip�hop�has�been�adopted�by�female�street�novelists,�many�of�whom�self-publish their�gritty�urban�tales.�The�rapid�explosion�of�black�female�street-lit�authors�is�a cultural�and�literary�phenomenon�that�demands�the�attention�of�scholars�who�are interested�in�the�ways�that�black�women�use�literature�to�articulate�black�female subjectivity.�It�stands�to�reason,�then,�that�if�we�want�to�locate�narratives�of�women’s lives�in�the�hip-hop�generation,�we�must�turn�to�hip�hop’s�literature.
Sapphire’s�1996�novel�Push draws�on�the�“gritty�urban�street�chronicles”�of�hip- hop�aesthetics�to�tell�the�story�of�Claireece�“Precious”�Jones,�a�teenager�coming�of age�in�what�William�Jelani�Cobb�refers�to�as�the�golden�era�of�hip�hop,�1984�to�1992.2
This�text�predates�the�rise�of�hip-hop�or�street�literature�by�several�years.3 Sapphire’s effort�to�tie�Push,�through�implicit�and�explicit�textual�allusions,�to�the�work�of�Toni Morrison,�Alice�Walker,�Audre�Lorde,�and�Pat�Parker�connects�these�seemingly divergent�“high�vs.�low�art”�approaches�to�black�women’s�storytelling.�Critics�have tended�to�ascribe�literary�value�to�texts�based�on�their�proximity�to�the�aesthetic qualities�of�works�by�more�canonical�authors,�such�as�Zora�Neale�Hurston,�Toni Morrison,�Alice�Walker,�and�Gayl�Jones.�Because�these�novelists�have�all�drawn�heavily on�blues�and�jazz�aesthetics�in�constructing�their�novels,�literary�critics�identified the�blues�and�jazz�as�a�significant�unifying�characteristic�of�the�African�American women’s�literary�tradition.4 This�has�tended�to�mean�that�African�American�literary texts,�particularly�those�of�black�women,�must�be�beholden�to�the�literary�nexus�of jazz�and�the�blues�if�they�want�to�be�considered�“serious”�literature.
Push acts�as�a�bridge�text�between�earlier�generations�of�black�women’s�writing and�the�urban�street�dramas�that�predominate�today.�Sapphire’s�invocation�of�hip�hop is�an�early�portrait�of�a�hip-hop�aesthetic�in�prose�form�that�offers�relevance�while avoiding�the�pitfalls�of�presentism.�Further,�the�novel�offers�a�critical�model�for the�ways�in�which�hip-hop�texts�(might)�engage�with�their�literary�forebears.�Push demonstrates�the�need�for�literary�works�to�grapple�with�the�politics,�poetics,�and aesthetics�of�hip�hop,�while�remaining�connected�with�these�prior�works.�Moreover, Push calls�into�existence�a�new�generation�of�black�women’s�stories,�stories�that consider�age-old�of�questions�of�family,�motherhood,�friendship,�sex,�and�love,�but in�the�context�of�hip-hop�culture,�the�AIDS�epidemic,�the�conservative�backlash�of the�1980s,�and�the�deindustrialized�city�confronting�urban�blight.
Thus,�two�questions�inform�my�examination�of�the�use�of�hip-hop�aesthetics�in Sapphire’s�1996�novel�Push.�First,�given�the�centrality�of�blues�and�jazz�music�to�the African�American�literary�tradition,�how�does�contemporary�African�American�liter- ature—and�in�particular,�work�by�African�American�women—encounter�and�engage
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hip-hop�culture�and�its�aesthetic�contours?�Second,�how�are�hip-hop�aesthetics, which�are�generally�characterized�as�issuing�from�and�being�informed�by�black�male experiences,�informed�and�shaped�by�the�stories�of�African�American�women? Sapphire�offers�preliminary�thoughts�on�how�we�might�answer�these�questions�in�an interview�with�literary�critic�Wendy�Rountree,�who�attempts�to�read�Push as�a�blues novel.�Whereas�Rountree�argues�that�“Sapphire�creates�a�young�blues�woman, Precious,�who�conquers�physical�and�emotional�abuse,�reclaims�her�voice,�and�tells her�story�by�masterfully�weaving�her�painful�experiences�into�blues�expression”�(133), Sapphire�characterizes�the�text�as�a�“blues/hip�hop/jazz�novel.”�She�notes�that�in addition�to�the�themes�of�acceptance,�submission,�and�transcendence�that�issue from�the�blues,�“it�is�in�hip�hop,�the�music�of�Precious’�generation,�that�we�find�the open�defiance,�visibility�of�the�formally�invisible�(ghetto�youth),�and�the�movement from�the�periphery�of�the�culture�to�it’s�[sic]�center”�(Sapphire�qtd.�in�Rountree�133). Although�Rountree�acknowledges�the�hybrid�nature�of�the�novel,�hip�hop�retains import�only�parenthetically�in�her�reading.�However,�Push actively�resists�a�singular reading�through�the�blues�tradition,�because�the�social�concerns�of�the�hip-hop generation�primarily�inform�the�protagonist’s�negotiation�of�age-old�questions about�motherhood,�sexuality,�family,�and�racism.
Instead,�Push foregrounds�and�is�informed�by�a�hip-hop�aesthetic.�This�aesthetic issues�from�a�generational�confrontation�with�economic�lack,�privation,�and�the realities�of�civil�rights-era�and�Black�Power-era�dreams�deferred,�and�takes�three primary�forms.�First,�it�uses�a�kind�of�social�alchemy�that�transforms�lack�into substance.�Lacking�access�to�formal�musical�training�in�increasingly�underfunded public�schools,�urban�youth�made�their�own�minimalist�instruments.�In�the�beginning, hip-hop�musicians�had�three�basic�instruments:�two�turntables,�a�microphone,�and a�person�who�could�beatbox,�a�technique�in�which�a�person�blew�air�rhythmically through�his�or�her�mouth�to�create�percussion.�By�the�early�1990s,�rapper�Tupac Shakur�had�cemented�this�pervasive�social�alchemy�by�famously�lamenting�the�expe- rience�of�“trying�to�make�a�dollar�out�of�fifteen�cents.”�Second,�hip-hop�music�and cultural�expression�privilege�a�well-honed�facility�for�defiance;�in�fact,�hip-hop expression�could�be�said�to�issue�from�a�set�of�cultural�experiences�that�pivot�upon a�dialectic�of�deviance�and�defiance.�By�deviance,�I�refer�to�the�ways�that�larger�cul- tural�narratives�and�structures�of�power�sought�to�demonize�and�pathologize�black and�brown�communities�from�without.�The�cultural�response�to�these�conditions among�hip-hop�youth�was�not�uplift�or�respectability�politics,�nonviolent�direct�action, or�armed�political�resistance,�but�open�cultural�defiance.�The�goal�of�such�open defiance�was�to�demand�visibility,�recognition,�and�voice,�if�not�access�to�better�social conditions.�Finally,�hip-hop�aesthetics�privilege�street�consciousness�and�cultural� literacy.�Hip-hop�music�and�texts�celebrate�protagonists�who�know�how�to�survive in�the�mean�streets�of�the�city,�and�these�texts�issue�tests�of�one’s�cultural�and�street knowledge,�by�references�to�history,�current�affairs,�geographical�location,�popular culture,�old�music,�new�music,�and�current�slang.�Thus,�hip-hop�texts�provide�a smorgasbord�of�cultural�references,�and�the�reader’s�or�listener’s�degree�of�knowledge determines�the�extent�to�which�he�or�she�can�make�meaning�out�of�the�text�and/or navigate�the�neighborhood.
Those Are the Breaks: Hip-hop Aesthetics and Literary Technique
Precious�begins�her�story�with�a�shocking�confession:�“I�was�left�back�whenI�was�twelve�because�I�had�a�baby�for�my�fahver,”�(3).�Her�precarious�social situation�makes�her�unsure�if�her�story�is�“even�a�story,”�but�she�presses�on,�testifying that�she�is�“gonna�try�to�make�sense�and�tell�the�truth,�else�what’s�the�fucking�use?”
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Precious’s�confrontational�style�reflects�the�street�lit�that�emerged�after�Push,�in which�“authors�tell�their�stories�boldly,�without�nuance,�and�with�pride�over�and over�again.�It’s�as�if�street-lit�authors�are�saying,�as�rappers�did�in�the�beginning�of hip�hop,�‘We�are�here.�This�is�how�it�is.�Make�of�us�what�you�will’�”�(Smith�192).
It�is�September�24,�1987.�Precious�has�just�walked�into�“I.S.�146�on�134th Street between�Lenox�Avenue�and�Adam�Clayton�Powell,�Jr.�Blvd”�in�Harlem�(4).�This vivid�description�of�her�exact�location�is�part�of�a�hip-hop�ethos�where�physical location,�a�marker�of�social�location,�is�everything.�Two�anchor�points�situate�the narrative�of�hip-hop�progress:�“where�ya�from”�and�“where�ya�at.”�School�is�a space�of�contention�for�Precious.�She�is�continually�in�conflict�with�her�teachers. After�one�particularly�heated�exchange�with�her�teacher,�she�refuses�to�leave�class, telling�him,�“I�ain’�going�nowhere�motherfucker�till�the�bell�ring.�I�came�to�learn maff�and�you�gon’�teach�me.”�In�a�self-reflexive�moment,�Precious�intimates,�“’N�I really�do�want�to�learn.�Everyday�I�tell�myself�something�gonna�happen,�some�shit like�on�TV.�I’m�gonna�break�through�or�somebody�gonna�break�through�to�me— I’m�gonna�learn,�catch�up,�be�normal”�(5).�She�even�gets�mad�when�other�students become�disruptive,�noting�that�when�“the�other�natives�get�restless�I�break�on�’em” (5).�It�is�significant�that�Precious�thinks�of�her�classmates�as�natives,�which�auto- matically�denotes�the�school�as�a�colonized�space.�Pregnant�with�her�second�child, on�the�verge�of�being�seventeen,�and�in�eighth�grade,�she�gets�expelled�from�school for�being�pregnant�and�for�having�“an�attitude�of�total�uncooperation”�(8).�Precious definitely�needs�a�break,�though�she�cannot�seem�to�catch�one.
The�repetition�of�the�word�break is�useful�for�thinking�about�the�aesthetic�con- tours�of�breaking�within�a�hip-hop�context,�in�which�“the�breaks”�refer�to�bad�luck or�unfortunate�circumstances�as�they�do�in�the�classic�song�by�rapper�Kurtis�Blow.5
Precious�not�only�needs�a�break,�but�she�is�also�willing�to�“break�bad”�or�get�violent with�her�classmates.�However,�more�so�than�all�of�this,�she�proclaims�her�own�need for�a�break-through.�Instead,�the�school�expels�her.�Luckily,�her�school�principal�Mrs. Lichtenstein,�referred�to�as�“the�white�bitch,”�takes�enough�of�an�interest�in�Precious to�suggest�that�she�consider�enrolling�in�an�alternative�school.�Her�mother�is�livid. “Go�down�to�welfare,�school�can’t�help�you�none,�now”�(22).�Now�that�she�is�pregnant with�her�second�child�by�her�father,�that�is.�Precious’s�home�life�is�its�own�site�of brokenness.
Reflecting�on�her�mother’s�refusal�to�acknowledge�her�father’s�abuse,�Precious concludes�that�“that�stinky�hoe�give�me�to�him�[because]�Probably�thas�what�he require�to�fuck�her,�some�of�me.”�Precious�then�has�a�flashback�to�one�of�their�many encounters:�“He�climb�on�me.�.�.�.�I�fall�back�on�bed,�he�fall�right�on�top�of�me.” In�the�midst�of�such�horrendous�abuse,�Precious�“change[s]�stations,�change[s]�bodies” (24).�“I�be�dancing�in�videos!”�she�tells�us.�“In�movies!�I�be�breaking,�fly,�jus’�a�dancing. Umm�hmm�heating�up�the�stage�at�the�Apollo�for�Doug�E.�Fresh�or�Al�B.�Sure! They�love�me!�Say�I’m�one�of�the�best�dancers”�(24).
In�this�understandable�“break”�from,�or�suspension�of�reality,�Precious�not�only changes�her�metaphoric�radio�or�television�station�but�also�changes�bodies,�shifting corporeally�and�temporally.�The�change�in�station�signals�a�shift�from�a�set�of�cultural resources�that�no�longer�works.�She�changes�to�a�station�that�she�can�understand, in�which�she�can�be�a�version�of�herself�that�she�desires.�Tellingly,�she�changes�to�a hip-hop�station.�On�that�station,�the�music�she�hears�conjures�visions�of�being�a video�girl�and�a�breakdancer�for�the�likes�of�hip-hop�pioneer�Doug�E.�Fresh.�She�is not�“flying�away”�but�rather�“breaking�fly,”�or�dancing�with�skill,�flair,�and�alacrity. Though�Precious�is�the�victim�of�many�bad�breaks,�and�though�she�deals�with�those traumas�by�taking�intermittent�breaks�from�reality,�her�fantasies,�configured�in�the nexus�between�breaking�away�from�reality�and�breaking�fly�on�a�hip-hop�stage, invite�us�to�see�these�“breaks”�and�the�brokenness�of�her�life�as�spaces�that�allow for�joy�and�creativity�along�with�critique�and�lament.
“MAybE I’LL bE A PoEt, RAPPER”: HIP-HoP FEMINISM ANd LItERARy AEStHEtICS IN PUSH 57
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Kurtis�Blow�deploys�“the�breaks”�as�a�metaphoric�double�entendre�that�signifies the�precarious�social�circumstances�that�characterize�the�lives�of�urban�youth�in�the 1980s,�and�the�aesthetic�generativity�and expectations�of�the�musical�break.�For instance,�when�the�chorus�moves�from�explicating�what�exactly�“are�the�breaks”�to proclaiming�“break�it�up”�three�times�and�then�telling�the�audience�to�“break�down,” there�is�an�extension�and�repetition�of�this�part�of�the�beat,�which�acts�as�an�invita- tion�for�listeners�to�really�start�dancing.�Blow’s�multivalent�use�of�“the�break(s)” reveals�it�to�be�a�germinal�cultural�metaphor�for�discussing�hip-hop�literary�aesthetics. Alonzo�Westbrook�defines�the�break�as�“the�part�in�an�old�school�song�where�the singer�would�pause�for�an�instrumental�part.�During�the�break,�deejays�would�rap�and b-boys�would�break�dance”�(Westbrook�18).�The�“instrumental�part”�is�known�as the�breakbeat.�Breakbeats�could�also�be�parts�of�a�song�that�a�deejay�finds�especially compelling,�at�which�point�he�or�she�manipulates�the�turntable�to�cause�that�part�of the�record�to�repeat,�much�like�a�broken�record,�but�with�more�intentionality�and flair.�The�break�is�not�only�critical�in�the�immediate�moment�of�a�hip-hop�event, defining�as�it�does�a�deejay’s�skill�for�getting�the�party�started�and�keeping�it�going, but�is�also�literally�one�of�the�most�important�germinal�moments�for�developing�and showcasing�hip-hop�artistry.�The�engagement�of�hip-hop�artists�with�the�breakbeat centrally�influenced�the�development�of�breakdancing�and�rapping.�That�moment celebrates�the�creative�use�of�voices�and�bodies�in�a�joyful�engagement�with�the corporeal.
Though�hip-hop�musicians�and�fans�have�their�own�mode�and�manner�of�using the�break�to�create�music,�the�break�is�not�unique�to�hip�hop.�The�break�has�been�a significant�component�of�the�blues�and�jazz.�Cheryl�Wall,�drawing�on�the�work�of James�Snead,�argues�that�the�“cut”�or�the�“break”�“is�[a]�salient�characteristic�of [blues]�music”�(16).�She�explains�that�“the�cut,”�which�she�alternatively�refers�to�as “the�break,”�“accentuates�the�‘repetitive�nature�of�the�music,�by�abruptly�skipping it�back�to�another�beginning�which�we�have�already�heard’�”�(16).�For�Wall,�the�cut or�the�break�provides�a�useful�metaphor�for�thinking�about�the�continuities�and discontinuities,�the�fractures,�and�the�erasures�that�help�to�constitute�a�black�women’s literary�tradition.�Henry�Louis�Gates,�Jr.�also�extols�the�significance�of�the�jazz- inflected�break�and�the�blues-inflected�break�to�the�African�American�literary�tradition in�his�now-classic�formulation�of�Signifying.�In�jazz,�the�musician�often�“signifies the�beat”�by�“playing�the�upbeat�into�the�downbeat�of�the�chorus,”�thus�rendering the�downbeat�“present�by�its�absence”�(Gates�123).�In�contrast,�the�blues�tries�to stretch�particular�phrases,�making�them�“elastic”�according�to�Gates�(123).�Wall�would suggest�that�this�process�of�making�phrases�elastic�happens�by�“worrying�the�line,” a�reference�to�the�ways�blues�singers�use�their�vocal�instrument�to�accentuate�or extend�different�parts�of�a�verse�of�song.�Whereas�jazz�musicians�used�musical instruments�to�signify�the�beat,�and�blues�singers�used�their�voices�to�worry�the musical�line,�hip-hop�deejays�used�vinyl�records,�two�turntables,�and�a�microphone to�extend�the�breaks�of�their�favorite�songs.
Gates�and�Wall�use�the�break�as�a�literary�technique�and�a�critical�metaphor�to demonstrate�the�importance�of�blues�and�jazz�aesthetics�within�the�African�American literary�tradition.�These�scholars�are�also�concerned�with�how�literary�texts�use�jazz and�blues�music,�in�content�and�form,�to�engage�with�the�literary�past.�For�Gates, the�way�jazz�musicians�“signified�upon�the�beat”�is�analogous�to�the�way�that�black writers�Signify�upon�prior�literary�texts�through�parody�and�pastiche.6 For�Wall,�the way�blues�singers�worried�a�verse�of�song�is�analogous�to�the�ways�that�black�women writers�have�forged�a�literary�lineage�with�prior�black�women�writers�(Wall�13).�In�a subsequent�section,�I�will�demonstrate�how�Push worries�its�literary�line�and�creates a�kind�of�pastiche,�or�“literary�echo,”�within�a�hip-hop�aesthetic�frame�to�engage�the novel’s�literary�past�(Gates�xxvii).�I�argue�that�Push’s�transformation�of�the�breaks through�Precious’s�references�to�hip-hop�culture,�and�use�of�hip-hop�slang�constitutes
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a�formal�literary�revision�of�the�break�as�trope,�a�move�that�ushers�in�the�formal�use of�hip-hop�aesthetics�within�the�African�American�literary�tradition.
Like�many�canonized�African�American�novels,�Push is�concerned�with acknowledging�and�building�upon�its�literary�past.�Hip-hop�deejaying�in�its�earliest form�demanded�a�specific�engagement�with�history,�for�partygoers�were�dancing and�rapping�over�instrumentals�from�earlier�records.�The�deejay�who�could�mix�a particularly�brilliant,�but�little-known�or�hard-to-locate�breakbeat�into�a�mix�garnered and�still�garners�much�respect�in�hip-hop�circles.�Consequently,�hip�hop’s�manipula- tion�of�the�breaks,�not�only�within�rap�music�but�also�within�hip-hop�texts,�tells�us much�about�hip�hop’s�manner�and�method�of�engaging�with�its�musical�and�cultural past.�As�Adam�Mansbach�argues,�hip�hop�“understands�history�as�something�to backspin�and�cut�up�and�cover�with�fingerprints�in�a�particular�kind�of�way”�(93). Informed�by�a�material�engagement�with�the�literal�vinyl�record�of�hip�hop’s�musical past,�hip-hop�artistry�pivots�upon�a�direct,�and�often�literal,�connection�to�the�genre’s musical�and�literary�antecedents.
One�key�literary�antecedent�of�Push is�Toni�Morrison’s�1992�novel�Jazz.�Because I�argue�in�line�with�Cheryl�Wall�that�Push is�a�bridge�text�to�the�works�of�more canonical�black�women�writers,�I�want�to�worry�the�literary�line�between�these�two seemingly�unrelated�texts,�to�demonstrate�the�ways�that�Toni�Morrison’s�contemporary novel�uses�the�social�concerns�of�the�Jazz�Age�to�confront�challenges�and�anxieties relevant�to�the�hip-hop�generation.�Though�Jazz is�about�1920s�New�York�in�the Jazz�Age,�I�argue�that�as�a�cultural�document,�the�novel�mirrors�larger�social�anxieties in�the�early�1990s�about�the�role�of�hip-hop�culture�and�rap�music�in�African American�culture.�Jazz attempts,�in�Morrison’s�words,�to�“represent�the�anarchy,�the originality,�the�improvisation,�the�practice,�the�anger,�the�daring�of�the�[jazz]�music” that�emerged�in�the�1920s�in�response�to�the�massive�migration�of�African�Americans to�urban�areas�from�rural�areas�(Morrison�and�West).�Though�Morrison�speaks�of jazz�music,�in�the�early�nineties�hip-hop�music�is�being�hailed�as�anarchic,�angry,�and daring,�if�not�entirely�original.
Morrison’s�attention�to�the�ways�in�which�the�broader�jazz�aesthetic�informed the�political�and�cultural�environs�of�1920s�New�York�illustrates�a�larger�point�about the�importance�of�music�for�capturing�the�aesthetics�of�place.�Whereas�northward migration,�rapid�industrialization,�and�access�to�unskilled�and�semiskilled�labor�gave rise�to�jazz�and�the�blues,�reverse�migration�(which�began�in�1970),�rapid�deindustrial- ization,�and�the�loss�of�unskilled�and�semiskilled�labor�characterized�the�emergence of�hip-hop�music�(Kelley�46).�Importantly,�jazz,�blues,�and�hip-hop�aesthetics�all emerged�as�a�response�to�the�often�turbulent�shifts�in�social�conditions�that�African Americans�experienced�throughout�the�twentieth�century.�I�want�to�offer�a�brief reading�of�Jazz that�illumines�these�connections,�while�demonstrating�how�the�novel foreshadows�and�beckons�the�kind�of�hip-hop�aesthetic�proclivities�that�will�charac- terize�Push and�later�novels.
Jazz tells�the�story�of�Joe�Trace,�a�married�man,�who�has�taken�up�with�and subsequently�murdered�his�young�mistress,�Felice,�after�she�loses�interest.�Dorcas, Felice’s�friend,�takes�it�upon�herself�to�facilitate�reconciliation�between�Joe�and�his wife�Violet,�by�visiting�them�and�using�their�shared�love�of�jazz�to�make�peace.�The novel’s�unnamed�narrator�presupposes�at�the�beginning�of�the�story�that�Dorcas’s visit�with�Joe�and�Violet,�issuing�as�it�does�from�a�certain�kind�of�intergenerational infidelity�and�trauma,�will�assuredly�come�to�a�violent�end,�as�had�Joe’s�relationship with�Felice.�However,�Morrison�signals�through�Dorcas,�named�for�a�biblical�char- acter�who�dies�and�is�resurrected,�that�this�will�not�be�the�case;�the�three�opt�for dialogue�and�dancing�rather�than�violence.�The�narrator,�so�“sure�that�one�would�kill the�other,”�is�shocked�to�discover�that�“the�past�is,”�in�fact,�not�“an�abused�record with�no�choice�but�to�repeat�itself�at�the�crack”�(Morrison�220).�The�narrator’s ambivalence�about�whether�a�new�generation�could�engage�the�past�in�anything
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other�than�the�most�violent�and�profane�terms�echoes�the�general�disillusionment with�hip-hop�music�and�culture�at�the�height�of�the�gangsta�rap�era.
The�material�symbol�of�the�larger�stories�being�passed�between�these�two�gen- erations�of�people�brought�together�by�a�blues/jazz�culture�that�inspired�boldness and�audacity�in�the�old�and�the�young�is�the�Okeh�race�record�Dorcas�brings�to�share with�the�Traces.�Certainly,�the�hip-hop�practice�of�“scratching”�old�records�to�extend the�break,�a�process�which�often�ruined�the�vinyl,�seemed�to�some�to�be�a�literal abuse�of�the�past.�However,�as�Violet,�Joe,�and�Dorcas�dance�and�commune,�the narrator�is�disabused�of�her�belief�that�“no�power�on�earth�could�lift�the�arm�that held�the�needle,”�locking�them�into�an�inescapable�conclusion�(Morrison�220).�With audacious�intensity,�or�depending�on�whom�you�ask,�a�certain�unmitigated�gall, members�of�the�hip-hop�generation�have�dared�not�only�to�lift�the�needle,�but�also to�see�the�possibility�within�the�break�to�capitalize�on�that�possibility�through�the production�of�a�new�sound�and�mode�of�being,�and�finally�to�culminate�the�act�by dancing�and�“walking�all�over”�anyone�who�attempted�get�in�the�way�(Morrison�220). Dorcas’s�visit�to�the�Traces�does�not�end�violently,�which�signals�that�a�trace�of�the past,�resurrected�and�transformed�in�a�new�generation,�will�remain.
Jazz,�then,�on�the�one�hand,�portends�the�advent�of,�and�on�the�other,�beckons a�new�future,�one�in�which�cracks,�breaks,�and�fissures�constitute�not�erasure�but instead�a�trace�of�the�past,�refigured�into�a�new�present.�Jazz acknowledges�through the�presence�of�Felice�and�Dorcas�the�potential�for�violence,�but�also�the�potential for�survival�and�transformation.�The�novel�also�signals�the�inevitability�of�new generations�confronting�and�interacting�with�their�past.�The�novel�pushes�through its�anxiety�to�suggest�that�these�encounters�can�indeed�be�fruitful�and�generative. Consequently,�by�inviting�readers�to�come�to�a�different�conclusion�about�how younger�generations�engage�with�the�cultural�materials�of�the�past,�Morrison�creates literary�space�for�Sapphire’s�project�in�Push.
“A Closed Mouth Don’t Get Fed”: Recognition and the Hunger for More
Regarding�the�development�of�black�female�subjectivity�in�the�hip-hop�era,�theconcept�of�the�break�is�essential�because�it�allows�black�women�to�transform generational�traumas�from�a�broken�record,�condemning�them�to�a�violent�end,�into a�“breakbeat,”�which�becomes�an�opportunity�for�play,�for�joy,�for�improvisation. The�transformation�of�the�break�represents�hip-hop�aesthetics�in�a�way�that�“brings together�time�and�race,�place�and�polyculturalism,�hot�beats�and�hybridity”�(Chang, Can’t Stop 2).�Push translates�these�conjunctive�pairs�to�the�written�page.�For�instance, when�Precious�and�her�friend�Rita�attend�their�first�meeting�of�an�incest�survivors group,�Precious�writes�a�poem�about�literal�change�in�physical�landscape�as�she travels�to�a�different�part�of�the�city:
bus�wheel�turn�me�through�time�.�.�. .�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�. .�.�.�(I�am�homer�on�a�voyage but�from�our�red�bricks�in�piles of�usta�be�buildings and�windows�of�black broke�glass�eyes we�come�to�buildings�bad but�not�so bad street�cleaner then�we�come�to�a�place of
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everything�is�fine big�glass�windows stores white�people .�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�.�. it’s�a�different�city.�(126-27)
The�vivid�imagery�of�Precious’s�poem�is�characteristic�of�a�hip-hop�aesthetic�ever- attuned�to�the�connections�of�race,�place,�and�cultural�exchange.�She�notices�that one�of�the�key�markers�of�her�being�in�a�different�city�is�the�pervasive�presence�of white�people.�Through�her�actual�travels�and�her�imaginary�travels�using�the�subway map�on�her�bedroom�door,�Precious�gains�a�“sharper�understanding�of�the�unevenly developed�and�racialized�order�of�her�city”�(Dubey�63).�As�the�physical�landscape becomes�cleaner�and�more�pristine,�the�racial�makeup�of�the�space�changes.
Like�earlier�hip-hop�songs,�Precious�also�provides�vivid�word�pictures�of�her spatial�landscape.�The�poem�itself�is�reminiscent�of�the�1982�hip-hop�hit�“The Message,”�by�Grandmaster�Flash�and�the�Furious�Five.�In�“The�Message,”�the�first commercially�successful�political�rap�song,�Grandmaster�Melle�Mel�raps�about�seeing broken�glass�all�around�and�people�urinating�on�the�stairs.�These�conditions�register a�lack�of�care�and�a�sense�of�nihilism�about�the�urban�blight�in�which�many�black New�Yorkers�are�forced�to�live.�Precious�and�Melle�Mel�confront�urban�blight,�each using�the�imagery�of�broken�glass�to�signal�the�broken�condition�of�the�social�order. Both�wonder�how�it�affects�their�humanity.�In�the�chorus,�Melle�Mel�compares�the conditions�to�a�jungle�that�could�just�take�him�or�any�of�these�residents�under. Whereas�Melle�Mel�muses�on�the�struggles�of�black�manhood�within�this�uneven racial�order,�Precious’s�despair�is�infused�with�the�gendered�struggles�of�being�a poor�black�girl�in�the�1980s�inner�city.�Precious�comes�to�understand�that�the�abuse of�women�knows�no�race�or�class�bounds:�“all�kinda�women�here.�Princess�girls, some�fat�girls,�old�women,�young�women.�One�thing�we�got�in�common,�no�the thing, is�we�rape”�(130).
Sapphire’s�direct�and�often�confrontational�portrayal�of�“the�breaks”�that�Precious faces—poverty,�premature�motherhood,�incest�and�sexual�abuse,�illiteracy,�HIV— serve�as�a�particular�kind�of�hip-hop�generation�truth�telling,�because�colloquially, “the�breaks”�still�indicate�the�presence�of�unfortunate�circumstances.�The�vivid portraits�of�privation,�violence,�and�survival�exemplify�what�William�Jelani�Cobb refers�to�as�“asphalt�naturalism,�a�literary�landscape�where�characters�are�motivated by�hunger—both�physical�and�metaphorical—and�shaped�by�the�unyielding�forces�of the�surrounding�world.�.�.�.�At�the�core�of�hip�hop’s�being,�its�rationale�for�existence, is�this�refusal�to�exist�as�unseen�and�unseeable”�(109).
Precious�is�indeed�driven�by�physical�and�metaphorical�hunger.�Reflecting�on�her first�day�at�Each�One�Teach�One�Alternative�School,�she�is�ashamed�and�angry�at�her failure�to�perform�well�on�various�standardized�tests:�“The�tesses�paint�a�picture�of me�wif�no�brain.�The�tesses�paint�a�picture�of�me�an’�my�muver—my�whole�family, we�more�than�dumb,�we�invisible.”�Precious�likens�her�existence�to�the�vampires�she has�seen�on�television:
I�big,�I�talk,�I�eats,�I�cooks,�I�laugh,�watch�TV,�do�what�my�muver�say.�But�I�can�see�when the�picture�come�back�I�don’t�exist.�Don’t�nobody�want�me.�Don’t�nobody�need�me.�I�know who�I�am.�I�know�who�they�say�I�am—vampire�sucking�the�system’s�blood.
She�wants�to�react,�resist,�and�change�this�narrative�desperately:�“I�wanna�say�I�am somebody.�I�wanna�say�it�on�subway,�TV,�movie,�LOUD”�(Push 30).�More�than�any- thing,�Precious�wants�to�be�seen,�acknowledged,�recognized.
Cobb�notes�that�in�hip-hop�culture,�recognition�and�more�specifically�the�verb to recognize take�on�significant�levels�of�meaning�within�the�culture.�In�the�1990s, the�phrase�“you�better�recognize”�was�pervasive�in�hip-hop�vernacular.�It�was�a
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way�for�a�speaker�to�demand�acknowledgement�and�respect�for�their�personhood, particularly�when�someone�was�on�the�verge�of�being�disrespectful.�Melissa�Harris- Perry�argues�that�the�problem�of�recognition�is�fundamental�to�black�women’s experiences�in�America.�According�to�Harris-Perry,�black�women�often�find�them- selves�“attempt[ing]�to�stand�upright�in�a�room�made�crooked�by�the�stereotypes�of black�women�as�a�group”�(Harris-Perry�35).�These�stereotypes�of�hypersexualized welfare�queens,�angry�black�women,�and�supernaturally�strong�sisters�constitute�a kind�of�severe�misrecognition�of�black�women’s�humanity.�One�result�is�that�black women�often�feel�shame,�for�“it�is�psychically�painful�to�hold�an�image�of�yourself while�knowing�that�others�hold�a�different,�more�negative�image�of�you”�(96).
Precious�is�acutely�aware�of�the�ways�that�the�educational�and�social�welfare systems�conspire�to�make�her�invisible.�Repeatedly�she�expresses�distress�and�shame as�she�encounters�people�with�power�who�pull�out�her�“file”�and�begin�to�interpret her�existence.�She�is�so�mad�she�“almost�spit[s]”�to�find�out�that�her�file�has�preceded her�at�Each�One�Teach�One.�She�wonders,
What�do�file�say.�I�know�it�say�I�got�a�baby.�Do�it�say�who�Daddy?�What�kinda�baby? Do�it�say�how�pages�the�same�for�me,�how�much�I�weigh,�fights�I�done�had?�I�don’t�know what�file�say.�I�do�know�every�time�they�wants�to�fuck�wif�me�or�decide�something�in�my life,�here�they�come�wif�the�mutherfucking�file.�Well,�OK,�they�got�the�file,�know�every mutherfucking�thing.�(28)
Precious�chafes�at�the�notion�that�a�file�could�define�her,�and�at�a�more�fundamental level,�she�is�disturbed�to�be�defined�by�her�shortcomings.�This�is�an�example�of�the kind�of�shameful�misrecognition�that�Harris-Perry�argues�is�central�to�black�women’s experiences�in�the�United�States.
After�Precious�reaches�a�functional�degree�of�literacy,�her�first�act�is�to�steal�her file�from�her�welfare�caseworker.�She�categorically�rejects�the�caseworker’s�conclusion that�her�“obvious�intellectual�limitations”�will�relegate�her�to�a�career�as�a�“home attendant”:�“A�home�attendant?�I�don’t�wanna�be�no�motherfucking�home�attendant!” (119).�She�is�also�livid�to�discover�that�the�caseworker�has�recorded�her�HIV-positive status�after�promising�not�to�do�so.�By�allowing�Precious�to�speak�back�to�the�case- worker,�Sapphire�invokes�a�practice�central�to�black�women’s�writing�by�creating�what Mae�Henderson�calls�a�“dialogic�of�difference,”�that�challenges�the�assumptions�of hegemonic�racial�and�gender�discourses�(Henderson�351).�Moreover,�Precious’s�act is�one�of�open�defiance�of�a�social�narrative�that�seeks�to�pathologize�her�and�cast her�as�deviant.
In�addition�to�her�metaphorical�hunger�for�visibility�and�recognition,�Precious is�also�often�physically�hungry,�requiring�a�degree�of�street�skills�and�ingenuity�in order�to�survive.�She�awakens�one�morning�with�a�hunger�headache�and�no�food�at home.�On�her�way�to�school,�she�steals�a�basket�of�chicken�from�a�local�eatery�and eats�all�of�it.�In�the�text’s�vividly�rendered�urban�landscaping,�she�tells�us�that�she tosses�bones�at�the�corner�of�126th Street�and�Adam�Clayton�Powell�Jr.�Boulevard, “wipe[s]�the�grease�off�my�mouth�with�the�roll,�stuff�rest�of�roll�in�my�mouf,�run across�125th,�and�I’m�there”�(Push 38-39).�In�this�moment,�her�physical�and metaphoric�desperations�collide;�although�the�image�of�a�fat�black�girl�running�down the�street�with�a�stolen�bucket�of�chicken�may�arouse�all�of�our�historical�sensibilities about�stereotyping�and�caricature,�the�reality�is�that�she�is�running�to�make�it�to school�on�time.�This�is�the�kind�of�hip-hop-influenced�street�savvy�that�it�takes�to survive�in�1980s�New�York.�Though�Precious�has�struggles�similar�to�other�female protagonists�in�the�black�women’s�literary�tradition,�like�Walker’s�Celie�or�Morrison’s Pecola,�her�life�options�are�influenced�by�the�historical�moment�in�which�she�finds herself.�Thus,�the�contextualized�narrative�of�failing�schools,�extreme�poverty,�a burgeoning�welfare�system,�and�the�conservative�backlash�to�its�existence�provide�a hip-hop�context�that�refuses�us�the�option�of�“writing�Precious�off�or�out,”�despite how�much�her�life�may�trouble�us.
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Without�the�benefit�of�hip�hop’s�context,�black�women�of�the�hip-hop�generation and�their�stories�can�be�dismissed.�In�fact,�that�dismissiveness�and�disdain�for�hip-hop generation�characters�emerge�in�Toni�Morrison’s�Love (2003).�A�brief�reading�of�the novel�demonstrates�the�pitfalls�of�not�grounding�characters�in�their�proper�aesthetic context.�Love opens�with�the�ruminations�of�L,�the�former�head�chef�at�Cosey’s restaurant�in�a�town�called�Silk.�The�story�centers�on�Heed�and�Christine�Cosey, childhood�friends�who�are�torn�apart�when�Christine’s�grandfather�takes�Heed�as his�twelve-year-old�child�bride.�To�trouble�the�waters�between�the�two�friends, Morrison�introduces�Junior�Viviane,�an�eighteen-year-old�woman�of�shady�origins who�comes�to�work�as�a�secretary�for�Heed.�Junior’s�entry�into�the�text�is�framed�by L’s�ruminations�on�the�state�of�gender�relationships,�race,�and�community�in�general. L�declares�that�she�has�been�forced�into�a�state�of�silence�since�“the�seventies,�when women�began�to�straddle�chairs�and�dance�crotch�out�on�television,�when�all�the magazines�started�featuring�behinds�and�inner�thighs�as�though�that’s�all�there�is�to a�woman”�(Morrison,�Love 3).�Though�she�no�longer�speaks,�she�hums:�“the�words dance�in�my�head�to�the�music�in�my�mouth.”�She�is�now�“background—the�movie music�that�comes�along�when�sweethearts�see�each�other�for�the�first�time”�(4).�But her�hum�is�not�invasive;�rather�it�is�“below�range,”�acting�as�a�“way�of�objecting�to how�the�century�is�turning�out.”�L�also�speaks�of�contemporary�women,�“nineties women,”�with�a�certain�cynicism�and�“disappointment”:
naturally�all�of�them�have�a�sad�story:�too�much�notice,�not�enough,�or�the�worst�kind.�Some tale�about�dragon�daddies�and�false-hearted�men,�or�mean�mamas�and�friends�who�did�them wrong.�Each�story�has�a�monster�in�it�who�made�them�tough�instead�of�brave,�so�they�open their�legs�rather�than�their�hearts�where�that�folded�child�is�tucked�(Morrison,�Love 4-5)
Danyel�Smith�argues�that�the�self-righteous�indignation�that�animates�black�high-lit- erary�authors’�disdain�for�street-lit�writers�is�not�so�much�anger�but�distress
that�the�stories�street-lit�authors�tell�are�so�much�the�same�as�our�“Black”�stories�were seventy�years�ago.
Regardless�of�the�marches�and�assassinations�and�rallies�and�hard�work�.�.�.,�being�Black in�the�United�States�since�the�Harlem�Renaissance�has�not�changed�as�much�as�we�would�[] have�it�in�our�collective�dream.�This�sameness .�.�.�is�depressing�and�hurtful.�(191;�emphasis in�original)
L’s�attitude�betrays�this�kind�of�disdain�for�Junior,�who�seemingly�has�not�benefited from�the�struggles�of�her�forebears�to�give�her�a�better�life.�Junior’s�failure�to�realize the�hopes�of�prior�generations�of�black�women�renders�her�dangerous�to�L,�who sees�Junior�as�a�literal�threat�to�whatever�inheritance�Heed�and�Christine�Cosey�might pass�on:
They�live�like�queens�in�Mr.�Cosey’s�house,�but�since�that�girl�moved�in�there�a�while�ago with�a�skirt�short�as�underpants�and�no�underpants�at�all,�I’ve�been�worried�about�them leaving�me�here�with�nothing�but�an�old�folks’�tale�to�draw�on.�I�know�it’s�trash:�just�another story�made�up�to�scare�wicked�females�and�correct�unruly�children.�But�it’s�all�I�have. (Morrison,�Love 10)
Indeed,�L�is�very�aware�of�her�gatekeeping,�corrective�impulses,�and�the�parochial nature�of�her�concerns,�and�yet�she�presses�forward�with�them.
Junior�enjoys�an�ambivalent�relationship�with�the�women�in�the�house,�for�she “saw�both�Christine’s�generosity�and�Heed’s�stinginess�as�forms�of�dismissal.�One�was ‘take�what�you�need�and�leave�me�alone.’�The�other�was�‘I’m�in�control�and�you�are not.’�Neither�woman�was�interested�in�her—except�as�she�simplified�or�complicated their�relationship�to�each�other”�(119).�Morrison�suggests�that�Junior�“had�no�past, no�history�but�her�own,”�which�meant�she�had�no�loyalties�to�Heed�or�Christine�(169). Hip-hop�protagonists�do�struggle�to�find�their�place�in�the�generational�lineage handed�down�by�African�American�women�writers,�of�whom�Morrison�is�chief.
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Junior’s�ambivalence�about�the�past�is�characteristic�of�the�post-soul�generation,7
which�“came�to�maturity�in�the�age�of�Reaganomics�and�experienced�the�change from�urban�industrialism�to�deindustrialism,�from�segregation�to�desegregation, from�essential�notions�of�blackness�to�metanarratives�on�blackness�without�any nostalgic�allegiance�to�the�past”�(Neal�3).�Much�like�generational�schisms�between older�and�younger�women�about�the�politics�of�respectability,�Love metatextually reveals�its�own�limitation,�namely,�that�Junior�functions�in�the�text�for�what�she reveals�about�the�fractured�relationships�of�the�prior�generation,�rather�than�for what�she�might�say�about�the�complexity�of�her�own�generation.�In�other�words, Morrison�uses�Junior�as�a�vehicle�to�reconcile�Heed�and�Christine,�but�because Junior�does�not�have�a�usable�past�upon�which�to�draw,�her�character,�and�the generation�she�represents,�remains�unredeemed.
“Where’s My Color Purple?”: Sampling as Intertextual Practice
Although�members�of�the�hip-hop�generation�do�not�have�nostalgic�allegianceto�the�past,�they�do�tacitly�acknowledge�it.�As�I�have�remarked�above,�Cheryl Wall�invokes�the�blues�trope�of�“worrying�the�line,”�an�expression�that�refers�to “altering�the�pitch�of�a�note�in�a�given�passage,”�(Henderson�qtd.�in�Wall�8),�to characterize�how�black�women�forge�a�connection�to�the�past,�even�when�their “genealogical�search�is�frustrated�by�gaps�in�the�written�history�and�knowledge”�(9). Although�worrying�the�line�is�one�useful�way�that�Push engages�the�past,�a�more precise�metaphor�is�necessary,�given�the�status�of�the�blues�as�a�generational�artifact that�emerges�in�a�specific�historical�moment,�and�speaks�most�powerfully�to�those who�can�access�its�history,�metaphors,�and�references.�Although�blues�was�“healing music”�for�multiple�generations�(Cole�and�Guy-Sheftall�189),�contemporary�charac- ters�like�Precious�speak�and�demand�a�new�idiom�as�they�emerge�in�literature�by�and about�African�American�women.
Push worries�its�literary�line�by�using�sampling�as�a�hip-hop�form�of�pastiche. As�previously�noted,�Gates’s�notion�of�pastiche�refers�to�literary�texts�that�offer unmotivated�forms�of�Signification,�which�in�the�case�of�hip-hop�texts�take�the�form of�literary�homage.�Although�Push indeed�revises�literary�texts�such�as�The Color Purple and�The Bluest Eye,�the�novel�does�not�draw�upon�jazz�and�blues�idioms�or metaphors�to�do�so.�Instead,�in�the�mode�of�hip-hop�aesthetic�improvisation,�the novel�samples from�its�literary�foremothers,�directly�referencing�their�works,�having Precious�read�the�texts�and�engage�with�the�implications�of�the�characters’�stories�in her�life.�Within�hip-hop�music,�this�is�akin�to�a�deejay�taking�a�vinyl�record�of�an�old song,�and�then�cutting�or�scratching�the�record�to�make�a�new�song.�The�referent�is neither�hidden�nor�oblique,�but�extremely�direct�and�tacitly�identifiable.�Mansbach argues�that�the�hip-hop�novel�is�a�kind�of�“mix-board,”�the�instrument�rappers�use so�that�on
any�given�song,�layers�of�musical�and�vocal�samples�overlap�each�other�and�abut�each�other, swirling�in�and�out�of�the�mix�at�the�glide�of�the�fader.�The�listener’s�degree�of�appreciation for�the�collage�is�related�.� .� .�to�his�or�her�degree�of�familiarity�with�the�elements�of�the collage.�Resonances,�echoes,�homages,�and�subversions�bubble�up.�.�.�.�(94)
In�other�words,�a�hip-hop�text�includes�several�samples�whether�musical�or�written, and�readers�and�critics�must�excavate�the�various�layers�of�meaning,�much�as�prior African�American�literary�critics�have�done,�by�teasing�out�the�ways�in�which African�American�novels�create�intertextual�conversations�with�each�other�through the�process�of�revision.�Sampling,�as�an�authorial�technique,�produces�texts�“studded
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“MAybE I’LL bE A PoEt, RAPPER”: HIP-HoP FEMINISM ANd LItERARy AEStHEtICS IN PUSH 65
with�a�range�of�references�and�echoes,�flips�and�homages.�Conversant�with�race literature�and�real-life�struggle,�the�characters�are�able�to�position�themselves�in relation�to�these�traditions�both�playfully�and�seriously”�(Mansbach�95).
Push’s�most�sampled�text�is�Alice�Walker’s�The Color Purple,�a�book�in�Precious’s growing�library.�The�intentional�discussion�of�The Color Purple forces�us�to�make�the connection�between�Precious�and�Celie,�who�Precious�intimates�causes�her�to�“cry cry�cry you�hear�me,�it�sound�in�a�way�so�much�like�myself”�(81).�However,�Precious indicates�that�unlike�Celie,�she�“ain�no�butch”�(Push 81).�Precious�attributes�her thinking�about�sexuality—and�race,�for�that�matter—to�the�gender�and�race�politics of�Louis�Farrakhan�and�the�Five�Percent�Nation,�a�sect�of�the�black�Muslims. Precious�is�such�a�fan�of�Farrakhan�and�in�particular�his�critiques�of�structural�racism that�her�son’s�middle�name�is�Louis.�However,�her�teacher�Ms.�Rain�thinks�he�is�a “jive�anti-Semitic,�homophobe�fool”�(74),�and�she�refuses�to�tolerate�Precious’s diatribes�against�gay�people.8
Precious’s�repeated�invocations�of�the�Five�Percent�Nation�and�Louis�Farrakhan squarely�situate�her�within�the�black�Muslim-influenced�hip-hop�cultural�milieu�of the�1980s.�Hip-hop�scholar�Charise�Cheney�notes�that�the�Five�Percenters�and�the Nation�of�Islam�were�significant�to�the�development�of�nationalist�consciousness�in rap�music�in�the�1980s�(121).�Acknowledging�Ms.�Rain’s�valid�critique�and�her�lesbian identity,�Precious�concedes,
Too�bad�about�Farrakhan.�I�still�believe�allah�and�stuff.�I�guess�I�still�believe�everything.�Ms Rain�say�homos�not�who�rape�me,�not�homos�who�let�me�sit�up�not�learn�for�sixteen�years. .�.�.�It’s�true.�Ms�Rain�the�one�who�put�the�chalk�in�my�hand,�make�me�queen�of�the�ABCs.�(81)
Precious�begins�to�grasp�the�limitations�of�black�nationalist�rhetoric,�especially�its unapologetic�homophobia�and�clearly�masculinist�politics.
For�example,�when�Ms.�Rain�informs�the�students�about�the�widespread�black male�backlash�to�the�book�and�the�film�adaptation�of�The Color Purple,�Precious affirms�her�love�for�the�book�because�it�gives�her�“so�much�strength,”�and�disagrees that�it’s�an�“unfair�picture�of�nigger�men.”�“Unfortunately,”�Precious�declares,�“it�is a�picture�I�know,�except�of�course�Farrakhan�who�is�real�man.�.�.�.�He�says�problem is�not�crack�but�the�cracker.�I�go�for�that�shit.”�Precious’s�views�on�racism�coupled with�her�love�for�the�womanist�community�presented�in�The Color Purple place�her squarely�at�the�crossroads�of�the�politics�that�define�contemporary�black�feminism. On�the�one�hand,�her�black�nationalist�sensibilities�are�being�shaped�by�the�same figures�shaping�the�nationalism�so�prevalent�in�hip�hop�in�the�1980s.�On�the�other hand,�for�all�her�agreement�with�Farrakhan,�Precious�seems�to�know�the�world�is not�merely�contained�in�the�arc�between�“crack”�and�“crackers.”�When�Ms.�Rain asks�her�feelings�about�The Color Purple’s�fairytale�ending,�she�responds,�“well�shit like�that�can�be�true.�Life�can�work�out�for�the�best�sometimes.”�Ms.�Rain�counters that�“realism�has�its�virtues”�but�Precious�mentally�retorts,�“I�don’t�know�what ‘realism’�mean�but�I�do�know�what�REALITY�is�and�it’s�a�mutherfucker”�(83).
Madhu�Dubey�argues�that�“although�Precious�here�seems�to�reject�her�teacher’s realist�criterion,�she�is�in�fact�reinstating�it�in�heightened�form�by�asserting�that�her own�experience�as�a�poor�black�woman�constitutes�reality�in�capital�letters”�(Dubey 94).�I�think,�however,�that�Precious�makes�an�important�distinction�between�realism, which�is�about�the�attempt�to�achieve�authentic�literary�representation,�and�lived reality,�which�Precious�hopes�can�be�reimagined�in�texts�that�are�not�wed�to�recreating her�story.�Unlike�her�male�hip-hop�generation�counterparts,�Precious�is�not�interested as�much�in�stories�that�“keep�it�real”�as�in�stories�that�allow�her�to�dream�of�new possibilities�and�to�see�beyond�her�current�lived�reality.
Just�when�Precious�is�beginning�to�dream,�her�mother�reveals�that�Precious’s father�Carl�has�died�of�the�AIDS�virus.�Precious�wonders�if�perhaps�Carl�is�not really�her�father,�just�like�the�“Man�rape�Celie�turn�out�not�to�be�her�daddy.”�As�she
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66 AFRICAN AMERICAN REVIEW
faces�the�possibility�of�being�HIV-positive,�Precious’s�world,�which�she�has�deliber- ately�been�making�anew,�begins�to�crumble.�The�song�that�is�“playing�in�her�head now,�not�rap,”�is�playing�perhaps�because�rap’s�realism�is�too�much�for�her�to�bear. Sitting�on�her�bed,�she�looks�at�her�pictures:�one�of�Alice�Walker,�Harriet�Tubman, and�Farrakhan.�Wall�argues�that�images�appear�in�black�women’s�texts�evoking “word�pictures,”�which�“conjure�memory�and�produce�the�storytelling�that�both recollects�and�reimagines�the�past”�(Wall�17).�Though�Precious�acknowledges�these figures�as�a�part�of�her�cultural�past�and�present,�she�proclaims�that�their�stories�are insufficient�for�her�current�realities:�“But�[Alice�Walker]�can’t�help�me�now.�Where my�Color Purple?�Where�my�god�most�high?�Where�my�king?�Where�my�black�love? Where�my�man�love?�Woman�love?�Any�kinda�love?”�(Push 87).�In�this�moment, Precious’s�acknowledgement�that�neither�rap�music�nor�black�feminist�literature�can comfort�her�represents�a�kind�of�textual�break�with�the�past.
Eventually�the�song�in�her�head�comes�into�focus,�and�“It’s�Aretha.�I�always�did wish�she�was�my�mother�or�Miss�Rain�or�Tina�Turner�.�.�.�singing,�‘Gotta�find�me�an angel�gotta�find�me�an�angel�in�my�liiife’�”�(88).�Sapphire�textually�samples�soul�music to�facilitate�Precious’s�ability�to�cope,�though�Precious�ultimately�will�reclaim�rap, Alice�Walker,�and�Farrakhan�in�the�narrative.�Precious’s�maternal�respect�for�Aretha Franklin�and�Tina�Turner�again�squarely�positions�Precious�as�what�Neal�calls�a�“soul baby.”�The�presence�of�a�post-soul�aesthetic,�however,�does�not�preclude�this�text’s placement�as�a�hip-hop�novel.�Rather,�hip-hop�music�and�culture�are�one�outgrowth of�the�post-soul�moment.�Her�invocation�of�the�Queen�of�Soul�creates�space�for�a hip-hop�narrative�that�flows�out�of�other�stories�of�blues�and�soul.�By�sampling from�Aretha�Franklin�(Queen�of�Soul)�and�Tina�Turner�(Queen�of�Rock�’n’�Roll), Precious�remixes�a�narrative�that�works�for�her.
Although�Sapphire�does�not�explicitly�allude�to�The Bluest Eye within�the�text, the�elemental�“gibberish”�that�characterizes�Precious’s�preliterate�writings�certainly are�a�remixed�homage�to�or�pastiche�of�Pecola’s�repetitive�references�to�the�Dick�and Jane�stories�in�The Bluest Eye.�Sapphire�invokes�this�gibberish�with�repeated�somewhat incoherent�references�to�the�alphabet,�which�are�supposed�to�demonstrate�Precious’s illiteracy.�“A�Day�at�the�Beach�Shore�A�Day�A�Day�ABC�Alphabetical�order�CD ABCD.�I�grab�my�notebook.”�The�alphabetical�refrain�remains�on�repeat�in�Precious’s head�until�she�finally�gets�it.�As�she�moves�from�chaos�to�order,�she�writes�acrostic poems�for�each�letter.�“A�is�fr�Afr”�which�means�A�is�for�Africa.�“M�frknka�rl�m” which�means�“Farrakhan�real�man”�and�Q�qee�litee�which�means�Queen�Latifah (65-66).�Her�acrostic�poems�do�not�rhyme,�but�through�the�gibberish�that�becomes form�and�the�content�of�cultural�references�in�the�acrostic,�the�poems�invoke�all the�practices�that�characterized�hip-hop�literary�aesthetics:�“collaging,�sampling, dislocating,�and�reconfiguring”�(Mansbach�100).�In�fact,�this�text�samples�and�layers multiple�genres�and�forms�of�writing,�such�as�the�epistolary�novel,�poetry,�and�the “book-within-a-book,”�creating�fiction�that�works�like�a�rap�record,�that�“builds�layers of�reference�and�meaning�and�plot�and�dialogue�and�character”�(Mansbach�94)�with multiple�points�of�entry�into�the�text�depending�on�one’s�point�of�reference.�Push becomes�a�complex�and�multi-layered�remix�of�multiple�texts,�musical�traditions, and�political�traditions.
Precious’s Emergent Hip-hop Feminism
One�result�of�Push’s�eclectic�sampling�of�texts�and�figures�is�that�Preciousbegins�to�cull�these�texts�and�figures�to�articulate�an�emerging�hip-hop feminist�consciousness.�For�example,�in�her�acrostic�alphabet,�Precious�invokes
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Queen�Latifah,�a�popular�female�rapper.9 Queen�Latifah�demonstrates�her�nationalist and�feminist�sensibilities�on�early�tracks�like�“Ladies�First.”�Precious’s�reference�to Latifah�suggests�not�only�that�hip�hop�speaks�to�her,�giving�her�“a�culture�and�a�lan- guage”�(Pough�xiii),�but�also�that�she�has�found�a�way�to�blend�her�love�for�herself as�a�young�woman�and�her�affinity�for�black�nationalist�politics.�In�fact,�her�acrostic bespeaks�the�various�cultural�layers�that�compose�hip-hop�culture,�music,�and�politics. Precious’s�later�assertion�that�“One�thing�I�say�about�Farrakhan�and�Alice�Walker they�help�me�like�being�black”�(96)�also�suggests�the�emergence�of�a�kind�of�nascent feminism,�forged�in�the�fires�of�Alice�Walker’s�feminist/womanist�politics�coupled with�the�race�consciousness�proffered�by�Farrakhan.�Joan�Morgan�argues�that
more�than�any�other�generation�before�us,�we�need�a�feminism�committed�to�‘keeping it�real.’�We�need�a�voice�like�our�music—one�that�samples�and�layers�many�voices,�injects its�sensibilities�into�the�old�and�flips�it�into�something�new,�provocative,�and�powerful.�.�.�. We�need�a�feminism�that�possesses�the�same�fundamental�understanding�held�by�any�true student�of�hip-hop.�Truth�can’t�be�found�in�the�voice�of�any�one�rapper�but�the�juxtaposition of�many.�(Morgan�62)
Thus,�Precious�tells�us�that�she�“still�believes�everything”:�the�truths�that�Ms.�Rain illustrates�for�her�about�Farrakhan�and�the�truths�that�he�helps�her�understand about�racism.�These�multiple�voices,�fused�with�insight�from�Precious’s�hip-hop context,�constitute�an�emerging�hip-hop�feminism.
The�text�ends�with�an�anthology�of�stories�produced�by�Precious’s�class,�the�Each One�Teach�One�crew.�These�stories�are�important�because�they�suggest�different narrative�preoccupations�in�hip-hop�literary�aesthetics�from�the�ones�William�Jelani Cobb�examines�in�the�work�of�black�male�rappers.�Cobb�asserts�that�“the�MC’s specific�ability�to�tell�the�stories�of�the�anonymous�city�dweller�is�the�contemporary extension�of�the�blues�tradition”�(112).�The�gritty�“curbside�chronicles”�and�their always-male�protagonists,�who�constitute�much�of�hip-hop�artistry,�are�the�“folklore of�the�twenty-first�century”�(Cobb�112).�Cobb�continues,�“The�stories�told�in�that folklore,�inherited�by�the�blues�and�bequeathed�to�hip�hop,�relay�the�doings�of strong�men�who,�by�their�brute�strength�or�brute�wit,�muscle�their�way�beyond�the parameters�.�.�.�that�constrain�the�rest�of�us”�(111).�I�do�not�disagree�with�Cobb’s account�of�hip�hop’s�blues�inheritance.�In�fact,�much�of�women’s�street�lit�follows this�paradigm,�leading�to�representations�of�blackness�and�femininity�that�resist�and reinscribe�dominant�stereotypes�of�black�womanhood�(Marshall�31).�However, female�emcees�have�been�present�since�hip�hop’s�beginnings,�and�the�stories�that women�tell�in�hip�hop�are�very�different.�As�Wall�notes�of�black�writers,�subject matter�has�traditionally�differed�between�men�and�women,�such�that�black�men�tend to�focus�more�on�“healing�the�fractured�bonds�between�men,�whether�fathers�and sons�or�son�and�brothers,”�whereas�black�women�writers�focus�more�on�the�rifts between�“men�and�women,�mothers�and�daughters”�(Wall�10).
Although�the�blues�bad�man�and�trickster�figures�might�be�origin�stories�for men’s�hip-hop�tales,�women�in�hip�hop�have�a�range�of�origin�stories,�including�the sexually�provocative�narratives�of�blues�women�and�the�empowering�stories�offered in�texts�such�as�The Color Purple.�Thus�any�formulation�of�hip-hop�aesthetics�that relies�primarily�on�men’s�“gritty”�street�narratives�should�be�treated�as�only�a�partial and�limited�account.�As�the�history�of�the�global�cultural�movement�that�is�hip�hop is�being�written,�scholars�have�an�intellectual�obligation�to�make�sure�that�women’s lives�are�treated�as�fabric�and�thread�in�the�narrative�arc.�Black�women�are�not�an addendum�to�any�hip-hop�narrative�that�we�might�tell.�We�are�not�merely�hip-hop cheerleaders�relegated�to�the�“sidelines�of�a�stage�we�built”�(Moore).
Precious�confirms�this�sentiment�in�her�contribution�to�the�class�anthology. In�her�closing�poem,�she�celebrates�the�fact�that�she�“can�see”�and�“can�read,”�and she�indicates�that�though�“nobody�can�see�now,”�“I�might�be�a�poet,�rapper.”�It�is
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important�that�a�comma�rather�than�a�conjunction�conjoins�these�terms,�because�they are�the�same�thing�for�Precious.�However,�her�desire�to�rap�squarely�situates�her within�a�hip-hop�cultural�frame,�so�that�she�desires�to�express�her�poetry�according�to the�cultural�dictates�of�hip�hop,�rather�than�the�blues�or�jazz.�Importantly,�however, she�does�not�jettison�her�past.�In�her�final�poem,�she�samples�from�three�key�figures, Hughes,�Farrakhan,�and�Walker,�taking�the�messages�“hold�fast�to�your�dreams,” “get�up�off�your�knees,”�and�“change,”�respectively.�Her�choice�of�cultural�references is�a�hip-hop�sample�of�the�best�messages�from�the�blues/jazz�tradition,�the�black nationalist�tradition,�and�the�black�feminist�tradition.�These�three�aesthetic�and political�arcs�have�most�dominantly�and�profoundly�influenced�the�art�and�culture of�hip�hop�in�the�twentieth�century.
The�novellas�that�round�out�Push are�prototypes�for�the�urban�literature�that comes�to�full�bloom�a�decade�later.�Push’s�stories�and�characters�are�on�the�whole more�complex,�dealing�with�issues�of�sexual�abuse,�queer�sexual�identity,�poverty, and�AIDS,�among�other�things.�But�the�stories�themselves�are�raw,�unpolished,�and unapologetically�heavy-handed.�They�foreshadow�the�stories�to�come,�and�indeed beckon�those�stories�into�existence.�Push stretches�the�boundaries�of�the�literary�so that�the�space�will�exist�for�Sistah�Souljah�and�others�to�write�the�kinds�of�stories not�being�told�among�the�African�American�literati.�Although�Push challenges�the insularity�of�the�Old�Guard�regarding�the�hearing�of�contemporary�stories�of�the urban�poor,�Sapphire�also�challenges�the�New�School�to�create�complex�and�diverse stories�of�black�female�subjectivity.�Even�so,�Push bridges�the�gap�by�using�hip-hop aesthetics�to�worry�the�literary�line�between�black�women�writers�in�generative�ways. Furthermore,�the�novel�takes�the�stories�of�Alice�Walker�and�Toni�Morrison�as�origin stories�for�female�hip-hop�protagonists,�a�move�that�challenges�masculinist�impulses in�the�scholarship�on�hip-hop�aesthetics.�Finally,�Precious�emerges�as�the�prototype of�a�hip-hop�feminist,�who�draws�upon�race�and�gender�politics�in�ways�that�will help�her�negotiate�her�status�as�an�unwed,�HIV-positive�mother�and�survivor�of abuse,�while�projecting�the�possibility�of�a�future�as�a�poet�and�rapper.�Push thus challenges�the�African�American�women’s�literary�tradition�to�embrace�the�future, while�demonstrating�unequivocally�that�emerging�hip-hop�literature�also�has�a useable�past.
1. Though rapper Nicki Minaj has risen to prominence since early 2010, winning multiple Grammy
Awards, the awards show still does not give awards in the best female rapper category. The BET (Black
Entertainment Television) Awards show does.
2. Here I’m using Cobb’s periodization: “the Old School, 1974-1983, the Golden Age 1984-1992, the
Modern Era, 1992-1997, and the Industrial Era, 1998-2005” (41).
3. Although Omar Tyree is considered an early novelist in the street -it tradition, Sistah Souljah’s novel
The Coldest Winter Ever (Simon & Schuster, 1999) is considered the inaugural text in black women’s street
literature.
4. There has been a longstanding debate among black feminist literary critics about whether a coherent
African American women’s literary tradition exists. For further reading, see Barbara Smith, “Towards a
Black Feminist Criticism,” Conditions: Two 1 (October 1977): 25-44, and Hazel Carby’s response in
Reconstructing Womanhood: The Emergence of the Afro-American Woman as Novelist (New York: Oxford UP,
1987). A range of texts also clarified the importance of jazz and blues to African American literary traditions.
See Houston A. Baker, Jr., Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature: A Vernacular Theory (Chicago: U of
Chicago P, 1987). See also Deborah McDowell, The Changing Same: Black Women’s Literature, Criticism,
and Theory (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1995).
5. Complete lyrics at Kurtis Blow, “The Breaks” (1980), Lyrics Depot, 2008, Web.
6. Parody is an (often indirect) reference to and revision of a prior text with the intention of disagreeing
with and or critiquing the premises of the text. Pastiche eschews the negative critique (Gates xxvi). Unlike
parody, which is a “motivated” form of Signification, pastiche is an “unmotivated” form of Signification
that “can imply either homage to an antecedent text or futility in the face of a seemingly indomitable mode
of representation” (xxvii).
68 AFRICAN AMERICAN REVIEW
Notes
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7. Post-soul aesthetics encompass hip-hop music and culture but is not limited to hip hop. Because
Push draws on soul music, using post-soul here fits within the aesthetic trajectory of the novel, while not
precluding a primarily hip-hop analysis. For further discussion of the post-soul aesthetic, see Neal 1-22.
8. Precious’s spelling of Ms. Rain’s name is inconsistent in the text, due in part to her progress toward
literacy. Sometimes the name is spelled “Mz. Rain,” or alternately “Ms Rain” or “Miz Rain.”
9. Queen Latifah actually would not have been a major rap figure based on the timeline given in the text.
She released her first album in 1989.
Chang, Jeff. Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: St. Martin’s, 2005.
—-, ed. Total Chaos: The Art and Aesthetics of Hip-Hop. New York: BasicCivitas, 2006.
Cheney, Charise. Brothers Gonna Work It Out: Sexual Politics in the Golden Age of Rap Nationalism. New York:
New York UP, 2005.
Cobb, William Jelani. To the Break of Dawn: A Freestyle on the Hip Hop Aesthetic. New York: New York UP,
2007.
Cole, Johnnetta Betsch, and Beverly Guy-Sheftall. Gender Talk: The Struggle for Women’s Equality in African
American Communities. New York: One World/Ballantine, 2003.
Dubey, Madhu. Signs and Cities: Black Literary Postmodernism. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2003.
Gates, Henry Louis, Jr. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism. New York:
Oxford UP, 1988.
Harris-Perry, Melissa V. Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes and Black Women in America. New Haven: Yale UP,
2011.
Henderson, Mae Gwendolyn. “Speaking in Tongues: Dialogics, Dialectics, and the Black Women Writer’s
Literary Tradition” African American Literary Theory: A Reader. Ed. Winston Napier. New York: New York
UP, 2000. 348-68.
Kelley, Robin D. G. Yo’ Mama’s Disfunktional: Fighting the Culture Wars in Urban America. Boston: Beacon,
1997.
Mansbach, Adam. “On Lit Hop.” Chang, Total Chaos 92-101.
Marshall, Elizabeth, Jeanine Staples, and Simone Gibson. “Ghetto Fabulous: Reading Black Adolescent
Femininity in Contemporary Urban Street Fiction.” Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy 53.1
(September 2009): 28-36.
Moore, Jessica Care. “I’m a Hip Hop Cheerleader.” YouTube. 5 Jan. 2011. Web. 2 Jan. 2014.
Morgan, Joan. When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: A Hip-Hop Feminist Breaks It Down. New York:
Touchstone, 1999.
Morrison, Toni. Jazz. 1992. New York: Vintage Books, 2004.
—-. Love. New York: Knopf, 2003.
Morrison, Toni, and Cornel West. “Blues, Love, and Politics.” The Nation 278.20 (24 May 2004): 18-28.
Neal, Mark Anthony. Soul Babies: Black Popular Culture and the Post-Soul Aesthetic. New York: Routledge,
2002.
Pough, Gwendolyn D. Check It While I Wreck It: Black Womanhood, Hip-Hop Culture and the Public Sphere.
Boston: Northeastern UP, 2004.
Rountree, Wendy A. “Overcoming Violence: Blues Expression in Sapphire’s PUSH.” Violence and
Aggression. Ed. Nandita Batra. Spec. issue of Atenea 24.1 (June 2004): 133-43.
Sapphire. Push. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.
Smith, Danyel. “Black Talk and Hot Sex: Why ‘Street Lit’ is Literature.” Chang, Total Chaos 188-97.
Wall, Cheryl. Worrying the Line: Black Women Writers, Lineage, and Literary Tradition. Chapel Hill: U of
North Carolina P, 2005.
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“MAybE I’LL bE A PoEt, RAPPER”: HIP-HoP FEMINISM ANd LItERARy AEStHEtICS IN PUSH 69
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Contributors
Kristiana Colón is a poet, playwright, actor, and educator living and working in Chicago. She has served as an adjunct English and humanities professor at Chicago State University, Malcolm X College, and Tribeca Flashpoint Academy. Colón has also performed on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam. The poems “safe word” and “stranger fruit,” appearing herein, will also be published in her forthcoming promised instruments (Northwestern UP).
Brittney Cooper is an assistant professor of women’s and gender studies and Africana studies at Rutgers University. She is also co founder of the Crunk Feminist Collective blog.
Curtis L. Crisler was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. His books are Pulling Scabs, Tough Boy Sonatas, and Dreamist: a mixed-genre novel. His chapbook Soundtrack to Latchkey Boy was recently released by Finishing Line Press. He’s been published in many magazines, journals, and anthologies. He is an assistant professor of English at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW), and a Cave Canem fellow.
Gail Dore is a retired teacher living in Johannesburg, South Africa. Her passion for writing is equaled only by her interest in the diverse tribal customs and cultures of the South African people. In her stories, she uses lesser-known facts and beliefs to illustrate the simple beauty of precolonial Africa.
Sara Hakeem Grewal is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of comparative litera- ture at the University of Michigan. Her academic interests include Urdu and Persian poetry, translation, lyric theory, and historical poetics.
Eunice Hargett was born in Cove City, North Carolina (population 402). She is an assistant professor of English at Broward College in Davie, Florida. Her latest book, Lessons from a Dirt Road: A Memoir in Poetry, will be published in 2014.
Casey Hayman is a doctoral candidate in the English department at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. His research and teaching interests include contemporary African American literature and popular culture, intersections of black music and literature, and hip-hop studies. His essays can be found in The Massachusetts Review and MELUS (forthcoming).
R. Scott Heath is an assistant professor in the department of English at Georgia State University, where he specializes in African American literature, black popular culture, and speculative race theory. His book Head Theory: Hip_Hop Discourse and Black-Based Culture is under contract with Oxford University Press. His next mono- graph is provisionally titled Automatic Black: Technologies of Race and Futurism.
Candice M. Jenkins is an associate professor of English at Hunter College, CUNY. Her first book, Private Lives, Proper Relations: Regulating Black Intimacy (U of Minnesota P, 2007), was awarded the William Sanders Scarborough Prize by the Modern Language Association in 2008. She is currently completing a new manuscript exploring black middle-class embodiment in post-civil rights-era African American fiction, and developing another project that uses principles from reader response and narrative theory to reimagine hip-hop listening.
F. Geoffrey Johnson, poet and visual artist, has been published in several literary journals and anthologies. Johnson self-published two collections of poetry, SMELLS I SEE (2004) and RESTORATION (2005). Visit http://www.smellsisee.com to gain more insight into F. Geoffrey Johnson’s literary and visual artistry.
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