Extra Credit

You know Boo, it's been six years since I've been writing about hip hop on the

womanist tip and I'm still getting asked the same questions. At work, the intelligentsia

types want to know if, "Given the undeniably high content of sexism and

misogyny in rap music, isn't a declared commitment to both, well, incongruous?"

And my girls they just come right out, "You still wit that nigga?"

So I tell them how good you do that thing you do. Laugh and say I'm just a

slave to your rhythms. Then I wax poetic about your artistic brilliance and the

voice (albeit predominantly male) you gave an embattled, in pain, nation. And

then I assure them that I call you out on all of your sexism on the regular. That

works, until someone, usually a Sista-friend, calls me out and says that while all of

that was valid that none of it explained why I stayed in an obviously abusive relationship.

And I can't lie Boo, that would stress me. 'Cuz my answers would start

sounding like those battered women I write about.

Sure, I say, all defensive. It's easy to judge-to wonder what any woman in

her right mind would be doing with that wack motherfucka if you're entering

now, before the sweet times. But the sweetness was there in the beginning of this

on-again off-again love affair. It started almost sixteen years ago, around the time

when Tony Boyd all mocked-neck and fine gave me my first tongue kiss in the

back of I.S. 148 and the South Bronx gave birth to a culture.

Those old school deejays and M.C.'s performed community service at schoolyard

jams. Intoxicating the crowd with beats and rhymes, they were shamans sent

to provide us with temporary relief from the ghetto's blues. As for sisters, we donned

our flare-leg Lee's and medallions, became fly-girls, and gave up the love. Nobody

even talked about sexism in hip hop back in those days. All an M.C. wanted then

was to be the baddest in battle, have a fly-girl, and take rides in his fresh O.J. If

we were being objectified (and I guess we were), nobody cared. At the time, there

seemed to be greater sins than being called "ladies, “a s in, "All the ladies in the

house, say 'Oww!"' Or "fly-girls, “a s in, "Whaty ou gonna do?" Perhaps it was

because we were being acknowledged as a complementary part of a whole.

But girlfriends got a point, Boo. We haven't been fly-girls for a very long

time. And all the love in the world does not erase the stinging impact of the new

invectives and brutal imagery-ugly imprints left on cheeks that have turned the

other way too many times. The abuse is undeniable. Dre, Short, Snoop, Scarface-

I give them all their due, but the new school's increasing use of violence,

straight-up selfish individualism, and woman-hating (half of them act like it

wasn't a woman who clothed and fed their black asses-and I don't care if mama was Crackhead Annie, then there was probably a grandmother who kept them

alive) masks even from my own eyes the essence of what I fell in love with.

Things were easier when your only enemies were white racism and middleclass

black folk who didn't want all that jungle music reminding them they had

kinky roots. Now your anger is turned inward. And I've spent too much time in

the crossfire, trying to explain why you find it necessary to hurt even those who

look like you. Not to mention a habit called commercialism and multiple performance

failures and I got to tell you, at times I've found myself scrounging or reasons

to stay. Something more than sixteen years being a long-ass time, and not

quite knowing how to walk away from a nigga' whose growth process has helped

define your existence.

So here I am, Boo, lovin' you, myself, my sistas, my brothers, with loyalties

that are as fierce as they are divided. One thing I know for certain is that if you

really are who I believe you to be, the voice of a nation, in pain and insane, then

any thinking black woman's relationship with you is going to be as complicated as

her love for black men. Whether I like it or not, you play a critical part in defining

my feminism. Only you can give me the answer to the question so many of us

are afraid to ask, "How did we go from fly-girls to bitches and hoes in our brothers'

eyes?"

You are my key to the locker room. And while it's true that your music holds

some of fifteen- to thirty-year-old black men's ugliest thoughts about me it is the

only place where I can challenge them. You are also the mirror in which we can see

ourselves. And there's nothing like spending time in the locker room to bring sisters

face to face with the ways we straight up play ourselves. Those are flesh and blood

women who put their titties on the glass. Real life ones who make their livings by

waiting backstage and slingin' price tags on the punanny. And if our feminism is

ever going to mean anything, theirs are the lives you can help us to save. As for

the abuse, the process is painful, yes, but wars are not won by soldiers who are

afraid to go the battleground.

So, Boo, I'vefinally got an answer to everybody that wants to talk about the

incongruity of our relationship. Hip hop and my feminism are not at war, but my

community is. And you are critical to our survival.

I'm yours Boo. From cradle to the grave.1

Since definitions of feminism tend to be as disparate as the women who

use them, let me define mine. My feminism places the welfare of black

women and the black community on its list of priorities. It also maintains

that black-on-black love is essential to the survival of both.

We have come to a point in our history, however, when black-on black

love-a love that's survived slavery, lynching, segregation, poverty,

and racism-is in serious danger. The statistics usher in this reality like

taps before the death march: in the last thirty years the number of black

two-parent households has decreased from 70 percent to 38 percent. The

leading cause of death among black men ages fifteen to twenty-four is

homicide. The majority of them will die at the hands of other black men.

As the following South Bronx tales reveal, women are the unsung

victims of black-on-black crime. Last month a friend of mine, a single

mother of a newborn (her "babyfather"-a brother-abdicated responsibility before their child was born), was attacked by a pitbull while walking

her dog in the park. The owner (a brother) trained the animal to prey on

other dogs and the flesh of his fellow community members.

A few weeks ago, my mother called upset to tell me about the murder

of a family friend. She was a troubled young woman with a history of substance

abuse, aggravated by her son's murder two years ago. She was

found beaten and burned beyond recognition. Her murderers were not

"skinheads," "the man," or "the racist white power structure." More likely

than not, they were brown men whose faces resembled her own. Clearly,

we are having a very difficult time loving each other.

Any feminism that fails to acknowledge how black folks in 1990s

America are living and trying to love in a war zone is useless to black

women and to men. Rap music is essential to the struggle against sexism

because it takes us straight to the battlefield.

My decision to expose myself to the sexism of Dr. Dre, Ice Cube,

Snoop Doggy Dog, or the Notorious B.I.G. is really my plea to my brothers

to tell me who they are. I need to know why they are so angry at me.

Why is disrespecting me one of the few things that will make them feel like

men? What are they going through on the daily that's got them acting so

fucked up?

As a black woman and a feminist I listen to the music with a willingness

to see past the machismo in order to be clear about what I'm really

dealing with. What I hear frightens me. Booming track after booming

track, I hear brothers talking about spending each day high as hell on

malt liquor and chronic. Don't sleep. What passes for "40 and a blunt"

good times in most of hip hop is really alcoholism, substance abuse, and

chemical dependency. When brothers can talk so cavalierly about killing

each other and then reveal that they have no expectation to see their

twenty-first birthday, that is straight-up depression masquerading as

machismo.

Anyone who is truly curious about the processes and pathologies that

form the psyche of the young, black, and criminal-minded should check

out the Notorious B.I.G.'s platinum album, Ready to Die. The album chronicles the life and times of the urban "soldier"-a blues-laden soul

train that takes us on Biggie's life journey. We board with the story of his

birth, strategically stopping to view his dysfunctional, warring family, his

first robbery, his first stint in jail, murder, drug-dealing, getting paid, partying,

sexin', rappin', mayhem, and death. Biggie's player persona may

momentarily convince the listener that he's livin' fat without a care in the

world, but other moments divulge his inner hell. The chorus of "Everyday

Struggle"-I don't wanna live no more / Sometimes I see death knockin' at my

front door / I'm living every day a hustle / Another drug to juggle / Another day

another struggle-reveal that "Big Poppa" is also plagued with guilt, regret, and depression. The album ultimately ends with his suicide and the following

chilling words:

All my life I've been considered as the worst

Lying to my mother even stealing out her purse

Crime after crime from drugs to extortion

Made my mother wish she had a fuckin' abortion

She don't even love me like she did when I was younger

Suckin' on her chest just to stop my fuckin' hunger

I wonder if I died would tears come to her eyes

Forgive me for my disrespect

Forgive me for my lies.

The seemingly impenetrable wall of sexism and machismo in rap music is

really the mask worn both to hide and to express the pain. Hip hop is the

only forum in which young black men, no matter how surreptitiously, are

allowed to express their pain at all.

When it comes to the struggle against sexism and our intimate relationships

with black men, some of the most on-point feminist advice I've

received comes from sisters like my mother, who wouldn't dream of using

the f-word. During our battle to resolve our complicated relationships

with my equally wonderful and errant father, she presented me with the

following gems of wisdom: "One of the most important lessons you will

ever learn in life and love is that you've got to love people for what they

are-not for who you would like them to be."

This becomes crystal clear to me when I am listening to hip hop. As

black women, we are hurt when we hear brothers calling us bitches and

hoes. We feel that the real crime being committed isn't the name-calling

but their failure to love us-to be our brothers in the way that we commit

ourselves to being their sistas. But what we've got to realize is that a man

who doesn't truly love himself is incapable of loving us in the healthy way

we want and need to be loved. It's telling that men who can only see us as

bitches and hoes refer to themselves only as niggers.

In the interest of our emotional health and overall sanity, black

women have got to learn to love brothers realistically, and that means

being honest with ourselves about where they are. Black men are

engaged in a war in which the real enemies, racism and the white power

structure, are masters of camouflage that have conditioned our men to

believe the enemy is brown. The effects of this have been as wicked as

they have been debilitating. Being in battle with an enemy that looks just

like you makes it hard to believe in the basics of life every human being

needs. For too many black men there is no trust, no community, no family.

Just self.

Since hip hop is the mirror in which so many brothers see themselves, it is significant that one of the music's most prevalent mythologies

is that black boys rarely grow into men. They remain perpetually post adolescent

or they die. For all the machismo and testosterone in the

music, it's frighteningly clear that many brothers see themselves as powerless

when it comes to facing the evils of the larger society.

As black women, we've got to do what any rational, survivalist minded

person would do after finding herself in a relationship with someone

whose pain makes him abusive. We must continue to give up the love

but from a distance that's safe. Distance is a great enabler of unconditional

love and support because it allows us to recognize that the attack, "the

bitch hoe bullshit," isn't personal but part of the illness.

As feminists, our focus has got to change. We can't afford to keep

expending energy on banal discussions of sexism in rap when sexism is

only part of a huge set of problems. Continuing on our previous path is

akin to demanding that a fiending, broke, crackhead not rob you blind

because it's wrong to do so.

If feminism intends to have any relevance in the lives of the majority

of black women, if it intends to move past theory and become functional,

it must rescue itself from the ivory towers of academia. Like it or not, hip

hop is not only the dominion of the young, black, and male, it is also the

world in which young black women live and survive. A functional feminism

for us, one that is going to be as helpful to Shequanna on 142nd as

it is to Samantha at Sarah Lawrence, has got to recognize hip hop's ability

to articulate the pain our community is in and then use that knowledge

to create a redemptive, healing space.

Notice my emphasis on "community." Hip hop is not only instrumental

in exposing black men's pain, it is a vital tool in bringing to the

surface the healing black women have got to do. It's time to stop ignoring

the fact that these rappers meet women daily who reaffirm their depiction

of us on vinyl. Backstage, the road and the hood are populated with

women who would do anything to be with a rapper sexually for an hour if

not a night. We do ourselves a disservice when we pretend to not know

who rapper Jeru the Damaja is talking about when he says:

Dealing with bitchez it's the same old song

they only want you 'til someone richer comes along

Don't get me wrong strong black women

I know whose who total respect I'm giving ...

Now a queen's a queen but a stunt's a stunt

You can tell who's who by the things they want

Most chicks want things, diamonds and Benz

Spend up all your ends

Probably fuck your friends ...

They be giving up sex for goods. Sex has long been the bartering chip that women use to gain protection,

material wealth, and the vicarious benefits of power. In the black

community, where women are given less access to all of the above,

"trickin"' becomes a means of leveling the playing field. Denying the justifiable

anger of rappers-men who could not get the time of day from

these women before a few dollars and a record deal-is not feminist or

strategic. Turning a blind eye and scampering for moral high ground

diverts our attention away from the young women who are being denied

access to power and are suffering for it.

It may be more convenient to turn our "feminist" attention to "the

sexist representation of women" in the latest Sir Mix A Lot video, to continue

fussing over one sexist rapper, but it would be infinitely more productive

to address the failing self-esteem of the 150 or so half-naked

young women who are willing, unpaid participants. Perhaps instead of

expending all of our energy reading brothers who call us out of name, we

might examine how flip we are when it comes to using the b-word to

describe each other. At some point we've all been the bearers or recipients

of the competitive, unsisterly, "bitchy" ways in which we can sometimes

act, particularly when vying for male attention.

Black folks have finally reached the point where we can recognize

how we engage in oppressive behaviors which white folks have little to do

with. Though complexion prejudices and classism are illnesses that have

their roots in white racism, the perpetrators are certainly black.

Similarly, feminism must confront the ways in which we are complicit

in our own oppression. Men's exploitation of our images and sexuality in

hip hop is, in many ways, done with the permission and cooperation of

our sisters. We need to be as accountable to each other as we believe

"race traitors" (that is, 100 or so brothers in blackface cooning in a skinhead's

music video) should be to our community. To acknowledge this

doesn't deny our victimization but it does raise the critical issue of whose

responsibility it is to end our oppression. As a feminist, I believe it is too

great a responsibility to leave to men.

A few years ago, on an airplane making its way to Montego Bay, I

received another gem of girlfriend wisdom from a sixty-year-old, self declared

nonfeminist. She was meeting her husband to celebrate her

thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. After telling her I was twenty-seven and

very much single, she looked at me and shook her head sadly. "I feel

sorry for your generation. You don't know how to have relationships,

especially the women." Curious, I asked her why she thought this was.

"The women of your generation, you want to be right. The women of my

generation, we didn't care about being right. We just wanted to win."

Too much of the discussion regarding sexism and the music focuses

on being right. We feel we're right and the rappers are wrong. The rappers

feel it's their right to describe their "reality" in any way they see fit. The stores feel it's their right to sell whatever the consumers want to hear. The

consumers feel it's their right to be able to decide what they want to listen

to. We may be the "rightest" of the bunch but we sure as hell ain't doing

the winning.

I believe that hip hop can help us win. We can start by recognizing

that its illuminating, informative narration and its ability to articulate our

collective pain is an invaluable tool for examining gender relations. The

information we amass can help create a redemptive, healing space for

black men and black women.

We are all winners when a space exists for brothers to honestly state

and explore the roots of their pain and subsequently their misogyny, sans

judgment. It is criminal that the only space our society provided for Tupac

Shakur to examine the pain, confusion, drug addiction, and fear that led

to his arrest and damn near his assassination was a prison cell. How can

we win if a prison cell is the only space an immensely talented but troubled

young black man could dare utter these words: "Even though I'm not

guilty of the charges they gave me, I'm not innocent in terms of the way I

was acting. I'm just as guilty for not doing things. Not with this case but

with my life. I had a job to do and I never showed up. I was so scared of

this responsibility that I was running away from it." We have to do better

than this for our men.

And we must do better for ourselves. We desperately need a space to

lovingly address our failing self-esteem, the ways we sexualize and objectify

ourselves, our confusion about sex and love, and the unhealthy, unloving,

unsisterly ways we treat each other. Commitment to developing these

spaces gives our community the potential for remedies based on honest,

clear diagnoses.

As a black woman I am aware that this doubles my workload, but

without these candid discussions there is little to no hope of exorcising the

illness that hurts and sometimes kills us.

We've already tried, "You're wrong. You're fucked up and I'm going

to light into you every time you do that shit." Let's flip the script and think

about how much more effective it is to hear, "I love you and I want to

always have you back. That's why I need to know why you're illing like

this because it hurts me. And it's impossible for me truly to have you back

when you're hurting me."

At the end of the day, I'd prefer the love to the empty victory of being

right and alone anyway. Wouldn't you?