The Organic Globalizer: Hip hop, political development, and movement culture 9781628920055, 9781628920031, 9781501302299, 9781628920062

Citation preview

The Organic Globalizer

The Organic Globalizer

Hip hop, political development, and movement culture

EDITED BY CHRISTOPHER MALONE AND GEORGE MARTINEZ, JR.

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway 50 Bedford Square New York London NY 10018 WC1B 3DP USA UK www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2015 © Christopher Malone, George Martinez, Jr., and Contributors, 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the authors. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The organic globalizer : hip hop, political development, and movement culture / edited by Christopher Malone and George Martinez. pages cm Includes index. ISBN 978-1-62892-005-5 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-62892-003-1 (paperback) 1. Politics and culture. 2. Hip-hop--Political aspects. 3. Music--Political aspects. 4. Popular culture-Political aspects. 5. Youth--Political activity. 6. Political participation. 7. Social action. 8. Social movements. I. Malone, Christopher. JA75.7.O74 2014 306.2--dc23 2014025789

ISBN: HB: 978-1-6289-2005-5 PB: 978-1-6289-2003-1 ePub: 978-1-6289-2008-6 ePDF: 978-1-6289-2006-2 Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

CONTENTS

About the cover art  vii Contributors  viii

1 The organic globalizer  1 Christopher Malone and George Martinez, Jr. 2 No church in the wild: Politics, morality, and hip hop in the Political Science classroom  19 Craig Douglas Albert 3 (Re)building the cypher: Fulfilling the promise of hip hop for liberation  43 Paul J. Kuttner and Mariama White-Hammond 4 Men or monsters? The applied uses of the commercial rap artist  59 Joy Boggs 5 Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls: Intellectual property law and the development of hip hop music  79 Richard Schur 6 Whirl trade: The peculiar image of hip hop in the global economies  99 Fahamu Pecou 7 Liberation hip hop: Palestinian hip hop and peaceful resistance  111 Denise DeGarmo and E. Duff Wrobbel

vi Contents

8 Asserting identity through music: Indigenous hip hop and self-empowerment  129 Anne Flaherty 9 Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness: Between branding banality and authenticity in Central European rap  149 Barbara Franz 10 Representations of Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop during post-Soviet era Cuba  171 Angela Ju 11 The politics of violence, hustling, and contempt in the Oakland, CA rap music scene  189 H. Lavar Pope 12 The belly of the beast  213 Keesha M. Middlemass 13 All day, all week, occupy all streets! Race, class, and hip hop in the Occupy Movement  233 Christopher Malone, George Martinez, Jr., and Davina Anderson Index  265

ABOUT THE COVER ART Symbolism of the cover art: “Organic Globalizer” The hand gesture in the middle represents the concept of “infinite building” and “knowledge,” which represents the fifth element of hip hop culture. This is surrounded by the four original elements of hip hop, which are represented by the presence of the (MC) holding the mic, the turntable (deejay), hand with can of spray paint (graffiti), and the b-boy in a hand stand (breaking). The piece is situated on a globe, with a diverse landscape moving from mountains to buildings. The entire piece is adorned with a leafy, growing vine, which represents the organic nature of the movement. Muralist (cover art bio: Leidy Rayo (Era) is a visionary Colombian artist, who has been a part of the graffiti movement since 2001 and member of the Global Block Collective since 2011. In 2006, she began working on developing hip hop schools in her home town of Soacha in order to share the tools of empowerment and knowledge with a risk youth. She is currently studying Art Therapy in Juniguiana, Argentina in order to deepen the study of the self, the healing and the symbolism of art. In 2012, she began experimenting with capturing her creativity on the human canvas, the skin, through the art of tattooing. Her vision is the completion of a hip hop cultural center in the municipality of Soacha, Colombia that will be dedicated to providing the tools for personal and intellectual growth, across the social, political, and cultural spectrums.

CONTRIBUTORS Christopher Malone, Ph.D. is Associate Professor of American Politics and Chair of the Political Science Department at Pace University’s New York City Campus. Since 2011, he has also served as Policy Director for New York State Senator Gustavo Rivera. Malone’s academic research focuses primarily on race and American political development, democracy, and citizenship. He is the author of Between Freedom and Bondage: Race, Party, and Voting Rights in the Antebellum North (Routledge Press, 2008) and co-author and co-editor of Occupying Political Science: The Occupy Wall Street Movement from New York to the World (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). Malone also reviews books for the Law and Politics Book Review. Malone is a nationally recognized teacher of civic engagement and public values. During the 2000 presidential campaign, he helped produce and appeared in the PBS show for teens In the Mix, teaching young voters about analyzing campaign ads. In January 2004, he was identified by the Washington Post as one of the nation’s most innovative professors. From 2004 to 2010, Malone co-taught a course on American Politics and Public Policy with C-SPAN’s Executive Producer Steve Scully that aired every Friday afternoon on the C-SPAN networks. George Martinez, Jr., also known as “George Rithm Martinez,” is an award winning artist, activist, and educator who blurs the lines between theory and practice through the combination of hip hop culture, grassroots organizing, and social entrepreneurship. George is an Adjunct Professor of Political Science at Pace University, a celebrated U.S. hip hop ambassador, and a political visionary. Martinez is the founder and President of the Global Block Foundation and the host of the nationally broadcast radio show Critical Reboot. Martinez has guest lectured and performed at universities throughout the United States and around the world and has appeared in more than 200 news outlets including MSNBC, Huff Post Live, the New York Times, USA Today, CNN Español, and the New Yorker. In 2013, Martinez was named as one of New York’s 40 Under 40 Rising Latino Stars. Craig Douglas Albert, Ph.D. received his Ph.D. from the University of Connecticut in 2009. His areas of expertise are in ethnic conflict, political

Contributors

ix

theory, and teaching and learning scholarship. He recently had articles published in Politics, The Journal of Political Science Education, Iran and the Caucasus, and East European Politics. His research primarily focuses on ethnic group identity and its relationship to the intensity of violence in conflict arenas. He recently developed an index that allows for measuring the strength of ethnic group identity; he is now working on creating an intensity of violence matrix. His main regions of focus include Chechnya, the Former Republics of Yugoslavia, and Kurdistan. Albert was recently featured in the national news concerning Chechen extremism, and he testified to Congress on Chechnya and its links to the Boston Bombings. He is an Assistant Professor at Georgia Regents University Augusta. In the past two years, Albert has been awarded the Georgia Political Science Association’s Emerging Leader in Teaching Award, the Georgia Consortium for International Studies’ Junior Faculty Award for Internationalization, the Student Government Association’s award for outstanding teaching in the Pamplin College of Arts, Humanities, and Social Sciences, and has most recently been named as a Georgia Governor’s Teaching Fellow for the 2014–15 academic year. Davina Anderson graduated from Pace University in spring 2014 with a B.A. in Political Science. She plans to attend law school in the future. Joy Boggs, M.A., DePaul University, is an emerging scholar whose research concerns identity formation, production, and performance in contemporary U.S. culture with a particular emphasis on how these elements sharpen the politics of difference. President Emeritus of the DePaul Women’s Network (DWN), Joy is a Public Voices Fellow with the OpEd Project, and is affiliated with the James & Grace Lee Boggs Center to Nurture Community Leadership. Denise DeGarmo, Ph.D. is currently an Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Political Science at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. She received her Ph.D. in International Relations and Comparative Politics from the University of Michigan Ann Arbor in 2001. She is the author of two books: The Disposal of Radioactive Wastes in the Metropolitan St. Louis Area: The Environmental and Health Legacy of the Mallinckrodt Chemical Works (Mellen Press, 2006) and International Environmental Treaties and State Behavior: Factors Influencing Cooperation (Routledge Press, 2004). DeGarmo has also authored several articles and book chapters and is involved in writing pieces for various social media outlets. She recently received a Seed Grant for Transitional

x Contributors

and Exploratory Projects (STEP) from her university to launch a new area of research: Achieving Human Security for an Independent Palestinian State. Her travels to the occupied Palestinian state has peaked her interest in political communication and language as a form of resistance. Anne Flaherty, Ph.D. is an Assistant Professor of Political Science at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, where she teaches American and Comparative Politics. She has degrees from the University of Richmond, the University of Sydney, and Duke University. Anne’s academic interests and research focus on indigenous people’s pursuit of sovereign rights and recognition. She also recently developed and taught a course on Music, Protest, and Politics to explore the question of the political dynamics of music around the world. Barbara Franz, Ph.D. (Syracuse University) is Professor of Political Science at Rider University. Her research interests juxtapose the phenomenon of mass migrations and refugee movements and what they mean for the stability of nations. She has published extensively on the impact of population movements on culture clashes within societies, and the root causes of migration movements, violence, terror, and genocide. Her book Uprooted and Unwanted: Bosnian Refugees in Austria and the United States (Texas A&M University Press, 2005) focuses on the experience of Bosnian refugees, especially women, in two host countries with vastly different settlement and social welfare policies. Another book, on the experience of immigrant youth, Hip Hop and Online Gaming is forthcoming from Lexington Books. Angela Ju is currently a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Political Science at UCLA. Her research deals with comparative race, ethnicity, and immigration in North and South America. She is currently writing her dissertation about immigration and ethnicity in São Paulo, Brazil. Paul J. Kuttner, Ed.D. is an educator and scholar working at the intersection of community organizing, youth civic engagement, and the arts. His research looks at community-based political and cultural organizations as sites of powerful educational and social change processes, particularly for young people in low income communities and communities of color. Paul is a Postdoctoral Fellow in Critical Communications Pedagogy at the University of Utah, and earned his

Contributors

xi

doctorate at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. His dissertation is an ethnographic study of Project HIP-HOP (PHH), a Boston-based organization that supports young artists in leveraging their art toward community change, and developing as social-justice-oriented cultural leaders. Paul is an educational sociologist, committed to research that is conducted in partnership with youth and communities. He is a coauthor of A Match on Dry Grass: Community Organizing as a Catalyst for School Reform (Oxford University Press, 2011) and a co-editor of Disrupting the School-to-Prison Pipeline (Harvard Education Press, 2012). He is a former co-chair of the Harvard Educational Review (HER) Editorial Board, and an advocate for the inclusion of a wider range of voices in scholarly discourse. Paul blogs at culturalorganizing.org. Keesha M. Middlemass, Ph.D. is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science at Trinity University (San Antonio, Texas), where she teaches courses in Urban Politics, Public Policy, and American Politics. Her scholarship examines the intersection of race, institutions, and public policy. Her scholarship is published in Aggressive Behavior, Criminal Justice & Behavior and Social Science Quarterly. Her coedited book, with the late Professor Manning Marable, Racializing Justice, Disenfranchising Lives (Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), explores the systemic crisis of mass imprisonment and mass disenfranchisement. Middlemass’s single authored book, Public Hostility: How Policies Utilize a Felony Conviction to Construct Social Disability, will be published by New York University Press. Conceptualizing a felony conviction as a social disability, Middlemass examines the first-hand experiences of re-entering society after a felony conviction. Relying on personal interviews, participant-observations, focus groups, and archival research, Middlemass links public policies, community, and individual experiences to demonstrate the multifaceted process of re-entering society with a felony conviction on one’s record. Middlemass is a member of the Racial Democracy, Crime and Justice Network (RDCJN, Ohio State University), a former Andrew Mellon Post-Doctoral Fellow on Race, Crime, and Justice at the Vera Institute of Justice in New York City, and a former American Political Science Association Congressional Fellow. She holds an M.A. (American Politics) and Ph.D. (Public Policy and American Politics) from the School of Public & International Affairs at the University of Georgia. Fahamu Pecou is an artist/scholar based in Atlanta, Georgia whose works comment on contemporary and hip hop culture while simultaneously subverting it to include his ideas on fine art. Pecou’s

xii Contributors

paintings, performance art, and scholarly work address concerns around representations of black masculinity in popular culture and how these images impact both the reading and the performance of black male masculinity and identity. Pecou’s work is featured in DEFINITION: The Art and Design of Hip Hop, an anthology chronicling the impact of hip hop on visual culture, written by famed graffiti artist and designer Cey Adams. Currently he is a doctoral student in Emory University’s Institute of Liberal Arts (ILA). Pecou maintains an active exhibition schedule as well as public lectures and speaking engagements at colleges and museums nationwide. H. Lavar Pope, Ph.D. Upon graduating from his Master’s Degree program in 2005, Lavar Pope began attending the University of California Santa Cruz as a Ph.D. student in the field of Politics. His dissertation “Internal Colonization and Revolt: Rap as an Underground Political Discourse in Oakland, CA from 1965–2010” began with an active-participant engagement within the underground Bay Area DJ/production scene, used a wealth of primary sources to explore the fundamental political content differences between underground and mainstream rap music, and questioned existing work predominately focused on use of mainstream sources. At the time Lavar was also a professional turntablist and had performed as disc-jockey at local venues in the tri-state area (N.Y., N.J., P.A.) and Bay Area, CA, co-hosted a radio show on WLVR (Lehigh Valley), and actively consulted and assisted local, unsigned artists. He is currently working as an instructor and teaches courses in American Political Science and special topics related to post-Reconstruction Civil Rights, Racial Justice, and musical subcultures. Richard Schur, Ph.D./J.D. is Professor of English and the Director of the Law & Society Program at Drury University, Springfield, Missouri. He is the author of Parodies of Ownership: Hip-Hop Aesthetics and Intellectual Property Law and co-editor of African American Culture and Legal Discourse. His research focuses on African American literature and culture, popular music, and law. He is also currently the co-host of the New Books in Popular Music podcast on the New Books Network. Mariama White-Hammond is the Executive Director of Project HIP-HOP (PHH), a youth-led organization that trains young people how to use hip hop as a cultural tool to educate and motivate their community. Born and raised in Boston, Mariama was involved in PHH throughout high school and college, and became the Executive Director in 2001, leading the

Contributors

xiii

organization as it became an independent 501(c)3 organization. Mariama has received a certificate in youth work through the BEST Initiative Youth Worker Training, and a certificate in trauma response from the Children’s Trauma Recovery Foundation. For her work at Project HIP-HOP, she received the 2004 Roxbury Founder’s Day Award and along with youth at PHH received the 2005 Boston Celtics “Heroes Among Us” Award. Mariama is also involved with a number of other organizations in Boston including the SE/LR Youthworkers Alliance. E. Duff Wrobbel, Ph.D. completed his doctorate at the University of Texas at Austin in 1994, and is currently an Associate Professor in the Department of Applied Communication Studies at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville, where he teaches courses across the communication curriculum. His research interests are eclectic, and include conversation analytic methodology, language and social construction, disability, university governance, and assessment.

CHAPTER ONE

The organic globalizer1 Christopher Malone and George Martinez, Jr.

Introduction Music is a potent form of communication that crosses cultural and linguistic barriers through various information networks. At certain times, it also has the ability to inextricably link itself to protest movements, power, and politics. From the sorrow songs sung by slaves on the plantation, to the subversive character of American jazz, blues, and R&B in the heyday of the Civil Rights Movement, to the “revolution in four-part harmony” that helped to end apartheid in South Africa,2 music has played a fundamental role in many social and political transformations. Today that power has undoubtedly been magnified with the rise of globalized communications. More than ever, faster than ever, music connects and influences people of all nations.

An earlier version of this chapter (2010) 32(4): was published in New Political Science 531–45. 2 “Little of beauty has America given the world save the rude grandeur God himself stamped on her bosom; the human spirit in this new world has expressed itself in vigor and ingenuity rather than in beauty. And so by fateful chance the Negro folk-song—the rhythmic cry of the slave—stands to-day not simply as the sole American music, but as the most beautiful expression of human experience born this side the seas. It has been neglected, it has been, and is, half despised, and above all it has been persistently mistaken and misunderstood; but notwithstanding, it still remains as the singular spiritual heritage of the nation and the greatest gift of the Negro people.” W. E. B. Dubois, The Souls of Black Folk (New York: Penguin Press), Ch. 14. Or few can deny the impact that Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” had in exposing the horrors of lynching to American society. See also Amandla! A Revolution in Four-Part Harmony (2003). 1

2

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Hip hop is no less a potent form of communication that has perhaps benefited more from globalized modes of communication than any other recent musical genre. From its emergence during the urban struggles of New York in the 1970s, its reach today spans all seven continents and is arguably the most important artistic global force since its emergence. Like all music, hip hop is first and foremost movement: rhythmic movement, bodily movement, movement of time and space and awareness (emotional, spiritual, cultural) within it. Unlike all other genres, however, we contend that hip hop in both its core and its elements contains a unique movement culture, which carries with it certain cultural, social, and political possibilities other musical genres rooted in specific traditions do not. These possibilities, ingrained in hip hop’s movement culture, are why we call it the “organic globalizer”: no matter its pervasiveness or its reach around the world, hip hop ultimately remains—and, we argue, should remain—a grassroots phenomenon that is born of the community from which it permeates. On the other hand, hip hop’s global appeal (in both form and content) also presents interesting possibilities that transcend geographical and cultural boundaries. Recognizing hip hop as an organic globalizer means that we must acknowledge hip hop itself as more than the transmission of symbolic expression of a particular culture or tradition. Though the historical development of hip hop in the United States has been distinct from the ways in which it is instantiated in local communities elsewhere, we nonetheless contend that the movement culture of hip hop positions it institutionally as a potential vehicle to usher in new forms of understanding about social cleavages (e.g. racial and class based) and new means of mobilizing that may lead to more democratic participation, civic engagement, and civic literacy of historically marginalized groups. We say “may” because hip hop does not necessarily lead to new forms of understanding or means of mobilizing. Neither does it have to. It has been, and can be, simply a particular musical genre—like others, done well or not so well depending on the artist. But this other side of hip hop, the side that trains the eye on the margin between actuality and possibility in the realm of social and political transformation, the “organic globalizer” side if you will: this is what interests us and broadly speaking animates the pages in this volume. While we will have more to say about the essays collected in this volune at the end of this chapter and the beginning of each to follow, our particular claims about hip hop as an organic globalizer unfold in what immediately follows. In the first section, we position our concept of hip hop within other analyses. While many scholars and commentators recognize the political impact of hip hop, much of the debate has focused primarily on the American context, and whether or not hip hop should be construed as a continuation of the long hard social and political struggles of African



The organic globalizer

3

Americans. Much like several excellent recent works on hip hop,3 our goal is to broaden the inquiry out beyond the analysis of hip hop as a symbolic embodiment of black culture to argue that the “elements” of hip hop give it an organic quality that has been adopted, co-opted, and utilized by indigenous communities around the world for their own ends. The second section sketches out what we identify as the three stages in the political development of hip hop: (1) the cultural awareness and emergence stage (roughly the early 1970s to the late 1980s), marked by the identification and recognition of voices of marginalized communities through music and art; (2) the social creation and institutionalization stage (roughly late 1980s–2000), marked by the development of independent alternative institutions and non-profit organizations in civil society geared toward social and economic justice; and (3) the political activism and participation stage (2000–present), which hip hop has entered in the United States. It is marked by demands made on the state by group actors, and the recognition of hip hop’s ability to affect electoral outcomes through political participation. For the most part, organizers in the hip hop community tended to reject electoral politics during the first and second stages. In the last decade, this has changed to the point where hip hop has become an important feature in electoral politics in the United States—through issue advocacy and/or the emergence of hip hop candidates. In the United States, then, the movement culture of hip hop followed a fairly straightforward, linear developmental path to the point where, today, all three of these developmental phases can operate in co-terminus fashion. Though it does not necessarily have to be all of these, there is a side of hip hop in the United States that lays a unique claim to a cultural, social, and political nexus. Can this movement culture and institutional developmental model be “exported”? Have we seen other countries or regions of the world follow similar patterns whereby hip hop has moved from cultural expression to social and political force? Herein rests the real possibility for hip hop as organic globalizer. In the final section, we provide a brief overview on the rest of the volume and what it seeks to achieve.

To be sure, there are many works that seek to address the global influence and impact of hip hop, which we align with. See, for instance, Tony Mitchell’s Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA (2002); Basu and Lemelle’s The Vinyl Ain’t Final: Hip Hop and the Globalization of Black Popular Culture (2006); P. Khalil Saucier’s Native Tongues: An African Hip-Hop Reader (2011); Eric Charry’s Hip-Hop Africa: New African Music in a Globalizing World (2012); and Sujatha Fernandes’s Close to the Edge: In Search of the Global Hip-Hop Generation (2011). 3

4

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Hip hop as the organic globalizer While hip hop as a cultural and aesthetic form of expression is over 40 years old, the scholarly literature on its social, economic, and political impact is roughly half that. It was only two decades ago that Tricia Rose released her groundbreaking work Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America, which provided the first extensive historical analysis of the development of hip hop (Rose 1994). That same year, historian and cultural studies scholar Robin D. G. Kelley tied the emergence of hip hop to black working-class culture in his excellent book Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class (Kelley 1994). Since then scholarship has indeed grown steadily as many authors have begun analyzing hip hop for its global reach.4 But as with Rose and Kelley’s pioneering work, a good deal of what followed continued to “African Americanize” hip hop through a focus on its ties to the African American community in the United States.5 Todd Boyd’s The New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip Hop (2003) was a representative case in point. It argued that a fundamental shift in power and leadership from the civil rights generation to the hip hop generation was all but completed—and with it new priorities, issues, and methods of political and cultural communication. Boyd’s work prompted other African American historians and cultural critics such as Derrick Alridge (2003) to counter that the civil rights and hip hop movements had much more in common than Boyd acknowledged, and that hip hop should be seen more as a continuation in the long history of the black American struggle rather than some fundamental break within it.6 We do not dispute these and other authors’ historical accounts, or the fact that hip hop is intrinsically connected to black culture and history in the United States. We take that as a given and, as hopefully will be seen below, we build upon their work to make our case. However, restricting an analysis of the history and development of hip hop to the American context without connecting it to a systematic analysis of hip hop’s reach and potential for social transformation through localized cultural norms and traditions misses an important element in the emergence of hip hop across the world. Recent scholarship has made that eminently clear: Halifu Osamare’s The Hiplife in Ghana: West African Indigenization of Hip-Hop (2012), for instance, analyzes how American hip hop has at once been The works here are too many to mention. Besides those mentioned above, see, for instance: Arlene Tickner (2008); Nina Cornyetz (1994); Peter Wade et al. (1999). 5 Besides Rose and Kelley, see for instance Nelson George (1999); Bakari Kitwana (2002); Jeff Chang (2005); S. Craig Watkins (2005); Charise Cheney (2005). For an earlier concise bibliographical essay on hip hop, see Juliana Chang (2006). 6 See also Alridge (2005). 4



The organic globalizer

5

globalized and indigenized in West Africa, transforming culture, society, and politics. Similarly, we offer a critical reinterpretation and reassessment of its evolution and expansion. While acknowledging the (multi)cultural roots of hip hop, our emphasis here shall instead be on its peculiar development from (1) a cultural expression; to (2) a network of grassroots social institutions built around issues of social justice; and, finally, to (3) a potentially enduring political force.7 We postulate that this trajectory has implications for marginalized communities using hip hop as a transformational force across the globe. The fundamental premise: hip hop is situated at once as a cultural phenomenon and institutionalized social reality on the global scale the likes of which we have not seen before with similar musical genres. In this sense, we agree with Arlene Tickner (2008: 121), who argues: what makes hip hop unique among popular musical genres is the way it relates to everyday life. In reflecting on poverty, inequality, exclusion, and discrimination; claiming a positive identity based on these conditions; and offering musical, linguistic and corporal tools for commenting on them, it transcends the bounded sites where it is practiced and participates in a symbolic network that circulates globally. While other cultural movements grounded in music have served as vehicles for social transformation, few if any have had the unique success in building a network of grassroots institutions geared toward social justice and political participation both locally and globally to the extent that hip hop has in its relatively short lifespan. Essentially this is what we mean by the term “organic globalizer.” It consists of a unique process in which the elements of a subculture that began in New York City spread across the United States, then the world through simple exposure, and the forces it set in motion. Tickner explains that hip hop was initially experienced in urban communities in the United States viscerally or “authentically,” and then was commoditized in the United States for a largely white audience through the rap music industry. Rap music was in turn exported across the globe in this “homogenized” or commoditized version (Tickner 2008: 121–3). A similar analysis led Rose (2008) to conclude that hip hop was in crisis. However, something peculiar has also happened—an organic reversal of sorts (see, for instance, Chapter 9, Barbara Franz’s work on hip hop in Central Europe). Many of those same communities that may have initially consumed a cultural caricature of hip hop promoted by the rap industry have since sought to make hip hop “their own” by using it to lodge that same visceral connection to local communities’ hip hop first experienced Hopefully it will become clear as we proceed that we think the jury is still out on the impact hip hop has on political participation and electoral politics. 7

6

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

in the United States. To be sure, such an organic process is not necessarily automatic or positive—as the work of many contributors to this volume makes eminently clear. But when an attempt to organize communities around a local hip hop culture has taken place, it has done so through a budding but burgeoning set of social and political networks. What comes of the institutionalization of hip hop as the organic globalizer remains to be seen. As we stated at the outset, an eye should gravitate toward the space between potentiality and actuality, and between the descriptive as well as the normative. On one side, we simply seek to explain how hip hop emerged as a specific form of cultural expression but was transformed into a robust set of social institutions that eventually—and perhaps inevitably—led to political activism and a call for hip hop communities to become politically involved. On the other side, we suggest that this history provides a prescription—a road map of sorts—for how the vehicle of hip hop might serve to develop the necessary institutions both in the United States and elsewhere to transform political realities at the local level. The questions that the development and evolution of hip hop thus raises are compelling and require responses if we are to understand hip hop’s impact and the prospects it holds for social and political transformation in communities around the globe. How exactly did a cultural artifact—born in the ramshackle but vibrant urban settings of New York City in the early 1970s—come to facilitate an awareness of a plethora of social problems (global as well as local) through the creation of community organizations some 20 years later? How did the creation and development of those institutions in turn precipitate and advance the growth of hip hop into the electoral arena by engaging in activities like voter registration and voter turnout drives, and the encouragement of “hip hop” candidates to run for political office on platforms of social justice? Can this model of growth and institutional development be replicated in other parts of the world? And finally, what are the prospects for new and lasting forms of democratic participation for marginalized groups?

From cultural expression to political activism: Three stages in the development of hip hop We shall take up the first of these questions in this section by tracing the development of hip hop over the last 40 years in the United States. We identify three distinct phases in its history. One caveat here before proceeding: while these three phases occurred more or less sequentially over time in the United States, they should be seen today as operating contemporaneously with each other. Today, hip hop as cultural expression exists right alongside various social institutions and the political participation of the hip hop community.



The organic globalizer

7

Stage I: Cultural awareness and emergence (early 1970s to the mid-1980s) The power of hip hop rests in the ability to combine every day experiences, limited resources, and existing cultural expressions to improvise new and original forms. It began in the post-civil rights urban ghettos of New York of the 1970s as economic and social changes heightened racial and class tensions. At its origins, hip hop was nothing more than an aesthetic and cultural assertion of what the streets felt like—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Summer heat brought young and old alike outside in close proximity with one another. Poor public services and few economic opportunities forced them to rely on the support of the community as well as their own resourcefulness. Hip hop thus developed organically through individuals and groups shaped by similar conditions using little more than what was at their disposal. Through the original four elements of hip hop (breakin’, graffiti, DJ’in’, and MC’in’), young people found vehicles to create a reference point of knowledge (which we believe constitutes the fifth element in hip hop), to reclaim public spaces in blighted neighborhoods, to critique existing conditions, to define and salute, and to empower and build. Most commentators cite the Sugarhill Gang’s 1979 hit “Rapper’s Delight” as the coming-of-age moment for hip hop. Yet, its origins and emergence as a cultural force can be traced back to at least a decade earlier—May 19, 1968 precisely, when the New York-based group Last Poets (Felipe Luciano, Gylan Kain, and David Nelson) got together to celebrate Malcolm X’s birthday in Mt. Morris Park in Harlem (Potter 2014). Their flowing vocal styles were the precursors to rap music, and while they epitomized a pro-black message the drum beats became the precursors of those of a more multi cultural hip hop music in the years to come. Five years later, in the community center space at 1520 Sedgwick Avenue in the Bronx, Clive Campbell, aka DJ Kool Herc, began deejaying back-to-school parties for his sister and friends (Roug 2008). DJ Herc is credited with creating the two-turntable technique, which now pervades hip hop. Herc emigrated from Jamaica in 1967; he brought with him the deejay style typical of reggae music and a West Indian work ethic (Universal Zulu Nation 2014). Certainly the point of the block party was to have fun. But DJ Herc was also an entrepreneur; he worked to raise his profile which soon led to local fame. Through the cultural form of hip hop, DJ Herc saw economic opportunity for advancement. Soon others in the Bronx began to emulate him, including Kevin Donovan, also known as Afrika Bambaataa Aasim, who adopted the name of the Zulu chief Bhambatha. Donovan had been a gang member in the South Bronx. After a trip to Africa he had won through an essay contest, he returned to New York and began to use this new musical form he named “hip hop” to draw angry kids out of gangs

8

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

(Chang 2007). Bambaataa formed Universal Zulu Nation in 1977, which sought to raise awareness of the scourge of gang violence in New York’s urban ghettos, and to turn young males away from what the rap industry would later call the “thug life.” Indeed, hip hop’s origins, through organizations like Zulu Nation, were fashioned on the exact opposite premise of the thug life. Bambaataa made that clear in 1982 when he initiated the first international hip hop tour built on peace, unity, love, and just having fun. Zulu Nation was the first organization formed from the hip hop community to promote social awareness and a vital link in hip hop’s development from its earliest stage of cultural expression to the second stage of social creation and institutionalization. Released a year before Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980, “Rapper’s Delight” immediately represented the potential market power of rap music. While the song exemplified the cultural recognition of hip hop as a community-based “block party,” it also opened this new form of selfexpression up to a wider commercialization. Around the same time, the graffiti movement became omnipresent on subway trains in New York City and caught the attention of artist Charlie Ahearn. In 1982, Ahearn directed the first hip hop film, Wild Style, which examined how the aesthetic of hip hop had developed up to that point from self-expression to art form through its four elements (Jaehne 1984). Two years later the film Breakin’ was released, and attempted to capture the energy of break dancing through the retelling of the tale of forbidden romance and gang violence found in the classic theatrical work West Side Story. Thus, within the span of just a decade, hip hop had gone from an organic, community-based activity of self-expression in the South Bronx to a commercialized art form that had begun to span the globe.

Stage II: Social creation and institutionalization stage (mid- to late 1980s–2000) By the mid-1980s, the popularity of hip hop had quickly expanded beyond the primarily black and Latino audiences who had experienced it in the previous decade. Artists such as Run DMC, LL Cool J, and Salt-N-Pepa brought the genre to mainstream, suburban, white American audiences; white rap bands such as the New York-based Beastie Boys signaled that the art form itself was to be appropriated by those outside of the communities of color in which it was created. Others would follow, and even if the label “inauthentic” could be applied to them, the appeal of hip hop to these wider audiences nonetheless indicated that it was a veritable multi cultural force. Yet, while a commercialized and corporatized form of hip hop began to produce enormous profits for many in the music industry, the late 1980s and early 1990s also saw two simultaneous movements within hip hop that



The organic globalizer

9

led to what we call Stage II in its development. First, a growing number of hip hop artists became overtly political. Part of the politicization of hip hop traced back to its very origins through groups like the Last Poets and the creation of Afrika Bambaataa’s Zulu Nation. But current events like apartheid in South Africa abroad and tensions of race and class in the United States drove further activism. Reagan’s support for the apartheid regime in South Africa drew outrage in communities of color across the United States. The hip hop community responded by working closely on the South Africa boycott with Artists Against Apartheid (Cook 2010). In the United States, growing issues of gang violence, police brutality, economic inequality, and persistent racism led rap artists such as Public Enemy, KRS-One, X-Clan, and Paris to address them through their music. At the very moment “gangsta rap” groups like N.W.A. were hitting the air waves, a progressive, politically conscious rap was also flourishing—economically as well as ideologically. Charise Cheney (2005) calls this era “the golden age of rap nationalism” because of the way hip hop artists appropriated the critiques and language of 1960s, Black Panther-style, black nationalism. Others have argued that by the late 1980s it was these and other hip hop artists, rather than black churches and traditional civil rights organizations, that connected most viscerally and immediately with disenfranchised urban youth (Bynoe 2014). Second, drawing upon the model offered by Zulu Nation, hip hop heads began creating non-profit, community-based organizations aimed at expanding the arts in poor communities, strengthening education, ending gang violence and youth incarceration, and fighting for social and economic justice. For example, in 1988, KRS-One created the Stop the Violence Movement—a collection of artists and activists that sought to promote positive and peaceful dispute resolution models. Several years later in 1991, he and Zizwe Mtafuta-Ukweli launched Human Education Against Lies (H.E.A.L), a not-for-profit corporation and organization that “promotes Human respect amongst Humanity by providing knowledge about Humanity” (Mtafuta-Ukweli 2014). KRS-One and Mtafuta-Ukweli described H.E.A.L. as a self-construction movement designed to rescue humanity from the most lethal disease facing it: Common Sense Deficiency Syndrome (CSDS): CSDS is the root of most of the world’s social problems. AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome), crack addiction, racism, sexism, environmental terrorism, “pimp-ism”, and imperialism are all encouraged and supported by CSDS. In fact, these anti-Human systems are symptoms of CSDS. Organized lying is the virulent base of CSDS and leads to the deceiving of the people causing the people to act insane to their Humanity. Since the principal carriers of CSDS are the education, religious, and political systems, they are shaking in their boots at the

10

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

possibility of being rocked by the H.E.A.L. movement. They are correct to be afraid because the H.E.A.L. movement plans to modify these institutions of lying. (Mtafuta-Ukweli 2014)8 Two years after H.E.A.L. was founded, the political and social activist organization Hip Hop Congress emerged in San Jose, California, and soon expanded to 30 chapters across the country. On the East Coast, the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement (MXGM)—a black nationalist hip hop-based organization with seven chapters in urban centers of the United States—formed in Brooklyn, New York. MXGM chapters set up community education workshop series, feeding and clothing programs, political prisoner amnesty campaigns, and initiated “Black August”—a celebration of hip hop and the “freedom fighters” for the black nationalist cause.9 In 1996, the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights was founded in Oakland, California. The Center’s mission is to promote justice, peace, and opportunity in and around the Bay Area through four separate but integrated projects: (1) Books not Bars, which addresses the problem of incarceration; (2) Green-Collar Jobs Campaign, which seeks to bring environmentally focused jobs to the inner city; (3) Soul of the City, which focuses on sustainable development in communities; and (4) Heal the Streets, a program that prevents youth (15–18) from engaging in violence, drugs, and gang-related activity. One year later in New York City, the grassroots organization Blackout Arts Collective (BAC) was founded by spoken word artists and hip hop MCs on the mission of empowering communities of color through the tools of hip hop culture and education. Like the Ella Baker Center, BAC has seven chapters in urban centers across the United States and promotes its identity as a “national organization that operates through local action.” Two issues at the core of BAC chapters across the United States are education and arts in the local public school system and the persistent problem of youth incarceration.10 The above is just a sampling of the community-based hip hop organizations that emerged during the initial years of the hip hop’s social creation and institutionalization stage. The number of organizations has grown steadily since and includes nationally focused ones such as the Hip Hop The H.E.A.L. manifesto can be found at http://www.hiphop-network.com/articles/ graffitiarticles/heal-1.asp (accessed February 22, 2014). 9 MXMG has local chapters in Atlanta, Detroit, New Orleans, Jackson, Dallas-Fort Worth, Oakland, New York. Malcolm X Grassroots Movement, http://mxgm.org (accessed February 10, 2014). 10 Ella Baker Center for Human Rights, http://www.ellabakercenter.org/page.php?pageid =19&contentid=151; Blackout Arts Collective, http://www.blackoutartscollective.com/about. html (both accessed February 22, 2014). 8



The organic globalizer

11

Caucus (formed in 2004), and internationally focused ones like the Hip-Hop Association (formed in 2002) and Global Block Foundation (formed 2008).11 In 2001, the United Nations recognized the international importance of hip hop when on May 16 of that year it commended hip hop as an “international culture of peace and prosperity” through the UN-sponsored Hip Hop Declaration of Peace. The Declaration lists 18 principles of “hip-hop culture,” which seek to maintain the dignity and respect of individuals, cultures, tribes, and peoples of the globe. As the Eleventh Principle states, “Hip hop Kulture [sic] is united as one multiskilled, multi-cultural, multi-faith, multi-racial people committed to the establishment and the development of peace.”12 The Declaration signaled hip hop’s “global” bona fides as a veritable source of conflict resolution.

Stage III: Political activism and participation (2000–present) Amid the presidential election of 1996, the renowned hip hop journalist Dave “Davey D” Cook asked a question in one of his articles: will rap artists run for political office in 1996? He explained: A rap artist running for office? How outlandish..is probably how many within the mainstream would view this concept.. But it is far from outlandish. White folks within the entertainment field have been doing this for years. Senator Bill Bradley out of New Jersey made a name for himself playing basketball. Sonny Bono and Clint Eastwood went from television and on screen icons to Mayors of Palm Springs and Carmel. Clint still does an occasional movie here and there and Bono took it to the next level by getting himself elected to Congress. If you really wanna [sic] think about one of this land’s most popular Presidents Ronald Regan [sic] went from movie actor to Governor to two term President of these United States. While all this is happening, politicians are often seen feverishly seeking the endorsements of today’s top icons. The political endorsements from folks like Jay Leno or Arnold Schwartznegger [sic] are considered worthy, yet you never hear about the political endorsements of those within the hip hop generation. Who was Spike Lee voting for in the last election? What about John Singleton? What does KRS-One think about this intense race between Pat Buchannon [sic] and Bob Dole. Hip Hop Caucus, http://hiphopcaucus.org; Hip-Hop Association, http://www.hiphop association.org/#/home; Global Block Foundation, http://www.globalblock.org/index.html (accessed February 22, 2014). 12 The Declaration of Peace was published, among other places, on December 8, 2011 at http:// www.thetika.com/hip-hop-declaration-of-peace (accessed February 24, 2014). 11

12

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

And will Bill Clinton approach KRS-One or someone like Speech or even Spearhead’s Michael Franti during the big election this fall and ask him to rally up the troops? (Cook 1996) That year, only one member of the hip hop community took up Davey D’s challenge—James White in Milwaukee, whom we briefly discuss below. This was largely intentional: in the wake of events such as the Rodney King beating and the Los Angeles riots, large portions of the hip hop community looked at electoral politics with askance. But Davey D and others were urging a different strategy, and by the mid- to late 1990s, hip hop was poised to enter what we have identified as the third stage in its development: political activism and political participation. Over the last decade and a half, hip hop has become overtly “political” mostly by seeking to influence electoral outcomes in the United States through voter registration drives, political style summits and conventions, and get-out-the-vote operations. To a much smaller degree, hip hop heads have begun recruiting and running candidates for elected office. As grassroots-based hip hop organizations were turning their attention to causes and issues in local communities across the United States in the 1990s, the commercial power that hip hop had amassed over the previous two decades inevitably allowed for a political platform that extended both across a mainstream national audience and down into local communities. Its origins are found in the Rock the Vote in 1992, when the organization registered over 300,000 young people to vote in time for the presidential election that year. Youth voter turnout that year increased by 20 percent over 1988 and served to reverse a 20-year decrease in youth participation in presidential elections (Trindell and Medhurst 1998). That year, “rap the vote” was merely a slogan used to appeal to hip hop communities across the United States, and in 1996 there was no meaningful hip hop presence in electoral politics either. However, in 2000, Russell Simmons’s 360HipHop organization joined with Rock the Vote to create Rap the Vote as a means of expanding and enhancing voter registration drives in communities of color where political participation was low if not altogether non-existent. In June 2001, Simmons also founded the Hip-Hop Summit Action Network (HSAN) dedicated to harnessing the cultural relevance of Hip-Hop music to serve as a catalyst for education advocacy and other societal concerns fundamental to the empowerment of youth…[hip-hop] must be responsibly and proactively utilized to fight the war on poverty and injustice. (hsan.org 2008) That summer National Hip-Hop Summit held its inaugural meeting in New



The organic globalizer

13

York City, out of which emerged an electoral arm called Hip-Hop Team Vote, which, like Rap the Vote, focused on voter registration drives of the hip hop generation in communities of color. As the re-election of George W. Bush approached, members of the hip hop community sought a more involved method of affecting electoral outcomes. In 2003, the National Hip Hop Political Convention (NHHPC) was founded, a political advocacy organization that claimed chapters in 20 states. In June 2004, the NHHPC held its first convention in Newark, New Jersey. Over 3,000 people and 600 delegates from the 20 states attended the four-day convention and worked on a five-point agenda which included the following platform issues: MM

Equal funding for all public schools, mandated by federal legislation or, if need be, a constitutional amendment. The platform rejects school vouchers, demands free post-secondary education and calls for legislation to eradicate illiteracy.

MM

The repeal of tax cuts for the wealthy, reparations for black Americans and full employment.

MM

Reinstatement of voting and other civil and human rights for convicted criminals, the eradication of mandatory minimum sentences and the formation of civilian review boards with subpoena power at all levels of government.

MM

Federal legislation for universal health care and women’s reproductive health, and increased funding for AIDS and other diseases.

MM

Withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan, Iraq, Puerto Rico and other occupied nations, an end to further U.S. imperialism and the formation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission that will investigate U.S. human rights abuses. (Jones 2004)

The election and re-election of Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012 also signaled the greatest level of electoral involvement for the hip hop community to date in terms of voter registration drives, get-out-the-vote operations, and political conventioneering and organizing. Yet, at the local level (and to a much smaller extent) hip hop has produced political candidates in the political activism and participation stage of development. In 1996, hip hop musical recording artist James White (also known as Ghetto Priest) won election to his first four-year term on the Milwaukee County Board of Supervisors. White served a total of three terms. Ras Baraka, a high school principal in Newark, New Jersey and son of the famous poet Amiri Baraka, has run for local political office several times

14

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

in the last two decades. In 1994, Baraka received 9 percent of the vote in Newark’s mayoral race as a 24-year-old. In 1998 and 2002, Baraka ran for Councilman-At-Large in New York and narrowly missed the run-offs each time. Baraka served as Newark Deputy Mayor under Sharp James from 2002 to 2005, and in 2010 he ran and won for South Ward Councilman in Newark (www.rasjbaraka.com 2014). In 2014, he was a candidate for Mayor of Newark. Across the river in New York City in 2001, hip hop MC and political activist George Martinez (also known as “Rithm,” one of the co-authors here) ran an insurgent campaign for City Council in Brooklyn, New York against incumbent Angel Rodriguez and received 13 percent of the vote. The following year Martinez was elected as Democratic District Leader of the 51st Assembly district in New York State. Since then, Martinez has served as a Cultural Envoy for the U.S. Department of State and made a run for Congress in 2012 on the heels of the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) Movement—something we will come back to in Chapter 13. Martinez has traveled on behalf of the U.S. government to countries throughout Latin America and Southeast Asia addressing issues of poverty and discrimination. Like Africa Bambaataa 30 years ago, Martinez uses the tools and methods of hip hop to turn youth involved in gangs in countries like Honduras, Nicaragua, and Bolivia away from violence and gang activity. As the “hip-hop generation” (Kitwana 2002) has matured in the United States, hip hop itself has been transformed from a cultural expression to a potential political force for civic engagement, activism, and democratic participation. Community-based organizations with roots in hip hop have cropped up across the country to provide services to communities, to educate, to steer youth from drug use and gang violence, to deal with the causes and effects of poverty and discrimination, and most importantly to advocate for a more democratic and humane society. While hip hop political organizations and candidates have put forth progressive platforms and ideas between and during elections, we acknowledge that the “political” success of hip hop is something open to debate. This is not to say that the events, organizations, or movements described above have had no impact on the communities at which they were targeted or the wider society. The hip hop community’s involvement in successful movements like the reform of the Rockefeller Drug Laws in New York State is a recent case in point. Social awareness has been raised, activism around specific issues both locally and nationally has been enhanced, and in many communities individuals and organizations linked to hip hop have worked with or even replaced older, more established community-based organizations in the cause of social and economic justice. As we write this in 2014, a mere 40 years after its appearance, hip hop operates simultaneously in the United States as: (1) cultural expression and commercial industry; (2) a network of social organizations working toward



The organic globalizer

15

issues of social and economic justice; and (3) an avenue for political activism and participation. In all of these phases, hip hop as the culturally shared experience of marginalization through various forms of discrimination, violence, poverty, and hardship continues to pervade many communities. All of this points to the fact that hip hop’s potential for transformation is probably more important than ever, given the national and international forces of militating against those communities.

To follow Some aspect of the concept of hip hop as “organic globalizer” inspired the authors and essays in this collection. Rather than offer an overview of each chapter that follows here, we have decided on another approach. Each chapter begins with an Editors’ note where we summarize the argument and attempt to contextualize its contents within the organic globalizer framework laid out above. Individually, the chapters that follow do not necessarily fit neatly within one or more of the three stages of development of hip hop we have outlined. Collectively, however, they broadly confirm a basic premise: hip hop, rooted in a movement culture, has been an artistic medium used to foster awareness, build and transform social institutions, and/or encourage political activism in local communities that have largely found themselves marginalized. We repeat our assertion that hip hop does not necessarily have to lead to any of these outcomes; further, when it has, the outcome is not always necessarily a “progressive” expression of political will. Put another way, none of what follows refutes other analyses of hip hop or the rap industry that shed a critical light on things like its commercialization, its cultural origins, the ongoing issues with misogyny, consumerism, homophobia, and so on. The literature on hip hop is burgeoning and at times boisterous. We are confident that within it a space exists for the Organic Globalizer.

References Alridge, Derrick. 2003. “Hip hop versus civil rights?” The Journal of African American History 88: 313–16. —2005. “From civil rights to hip hop: toward a nexus of ideas.” The Journal of African American History 90: 226–52. Basu, Dipannita and Sidney J. Lemelle, eds. 2006. The Vinyl Ain’t Final: Hip Hop and the Globalization of Black Popular Culture. Ann Arbor, MI: Pluto Press. Boyd, Todd. 2004. The New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip Hop. New York: New York University Press.

16

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Bynoe, Yvonne. “Hip-Hop Politics: Deconstructing the Myth.” http://www. funk-the-system.net/hiphopolitics.html (accessed February 24, 2014). Chang, Jeff. 2005. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: St. Martin’s Press. —2007. “It’s a hip-hop world.” Foreign Policy 163: 58–65. Chang, Juliana. 2006. “Keeping it real: interpreting hip-hop.” College English 68: 545–54. Charry, Eric. 2012. Hip-Hop Africa: New African Music in a Globalizing World. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Cheney, Charise. 2005. “‘Revolutionary generation’: (en)gendering the golden age of rap nationalism.” The Journal of African American History 90: 278–98. Cook, Dave “Davey D.” 1996. “Will Rap Artists Run for Political Office in 1996?” http://www.daveyd.com/politicaloff.html (accessed February 24, 2014). —2010. “Black History: Remembering How Hip Hop Took on Apartheid.” http:// hiphopandpolitics.wordpress.com/2010/02/08/black-history-fact-rememberinghow-hip-hop-took-on-apartheid/ (accessed January 31, 2014). Cornyetz, Nina. 1994. “Fetishized blackness: hip-hop and racial desire in contemporary Japan.” Social Text 41: 113–39. Fernandes, Sujatha. 2011. Close to the Edge: In Search of the Global Hip-Hop Generation. New York: Verso Press. George, Nelson. 1999. Hip Hop America. New York: Penguin. Jaehne, Karen. 1984. “Charles Ahearn: ‘wild style.’” Film Quarterly 37: 2–5. Jones, David. 2004. “Standing Up and Speaking Out: The Hip-Hop Generation’s Quest for Political Power and Representation.” National Housing Institute 137. http://www.nhi.org/online/issues/137/hiphop.html (accessed February 24, 2014). Kelley, Robin D. G. 1994. Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class. New York: Free Press. Kitwana, Bakari. 2002. The Hip Hop Generation: Young Blacks and the Crisis in African American Culture. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Mitchell, Tony, ed. 2002. Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Mtafuta-Ukweli, Zizwe. 2014. http://www.graffiti.org/ups/heal/reason.html (accessed February 22, 2014). Osamare, Halifu. 2012. The Hiplife in Ghana: West African Indigenization of Hip-Hop. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Potter, Russell A. “Roots N Rap #2: The Last Poets.” http://www.ric.edu/faculty/ rpotter/lpoets.html (accessed February 22, 2014). Rose, Tricia. 1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan Press. —2008. The Hip Hop Wars: What We Talk About When We Talk About Hip Hop—and Why It Matters. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Roug, Louise. February 24, 2008. “Music Might Save Bronx Homes.” Los Angeles Times. http://articles.latimes.com/2008/feb/24/nation/na-bronx24 (accessed June 15, 2010). Saucier, P. Khalil. 2011. Native Tongues: An African Hip-Hop Reader. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press.



The organic globalizer

17

Tickner, Arlene. 2008. “Aquí en el ghetto: hip-hop in Colombia, Cuba, and Mexico.” Latin American Politics and Society 50(3): 121–46. Trindell, John H. and Martin Medhurst. 1998. “Rhetorical reduplication in MTV’s rock the vote campaign.” Communications Studies 49: 18–28. Universal Zulu Nation. 2014. “Hip Hop History.” http://www.zulunation.com/ hip_hop_history_2.htm (accessed February 25, 2014). Wade, Peter, Michiel Baud, Arturo Escobar, Jean Muteba Rahier, Livio Sansone, Carlos Alberto Uribe, Fernando Urrea Giraldo, and Jim Weil. 1999. “Making cultural identities in Cali, Colombia [and comments and reply].” Current Anthropology 40: 449–71. Watkins, S. Craig. 2005. Hip Hop Matters: Politics, Pop Culture, and the Struggle for the Soul of a Movement. Boston: Beacon Press.

CHAPTER TWO

No church in the wild Politics, morality, and hip hop in the Political Science classroom Craig Douglas Albert

Editors’ note As we mentioned in Chapter 1, the first work analyzing hip hop from a scholarly/academic perspective appeared just two short decades ago. Hip hop scholarship has grown exponentially, creatively, and in unimaginable ways since. Over that same period, the movement culture of hip hop has penetrated the academy more or less in phases: first, academicians began using it as a basis of their scholarly research, thereby legitimating it across academic fields. Second, that burgeoning body of literature was brought back into the college classroom by faculty and used as a basis for the ongoing development and expansion of courses and curricula. Third, phases 1 and 2 were melded as hip hop itself became a pedagogical tool for exploring in scholarly ways history, culture, ideas, issues, and institutions in the classroom. This is an important aspect of hip hop’s ability to raise cultural awareness among different populations, at the same time embedding itself in institutions of (higher) education. Craig Douglas Albert’s chapter lies at that nexus point of cultural awareness and institutionalization on the one hand, and of scholarship and pedagogy on the other. Albert draws upon the growing body of literature around Hip Hop Based Education (HHBE) and demonstrates how hip hop

20

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

can be used as a medium for exploring traditional themes found in political science classes such as gender, race, ethnicity, class, religious freedom, and larger questions of morality. Albert ends his chapter by calling on political scientists to incorporate the movement culture of hip hop into other subfields of political science such as comparative and global studies. ***

Introduction On the surface, hip hop is often viewed as a medium that extols sex, violence, and drug use. It is exactly this superficial glance that university professors should take note of: these images and themes resonate with the precise age-range universities are invested in. At a time when most universities are investigating programs, classes, and initiatives that will increase student persistence and college retention rates, popular culture should not be overlooked. Students respond to what they are interested in. Instead of trying to pique their interest in some abstract, academic discourse, why not bring academia to them in forms already inundating them? Without much dispute, it is acknowledged that hip hop pervades youth and young adult culture in the United States and has been increasing as a global phenomenon. If this is true, it is reasonable to assume that professors can use hip hop to teach traditional notions of academic literature and complex discipline-specific concepts. In no way should the student, parent, or professor be concerned that using hip hop as a pedagogical tool will lessen the academic rigor one expects in a college education. As this chapter illustrates, hip hop can teach students complex notions that are the core of many disciplines in a way that may increase student participation, knowledge, and graduation rates—a win for all involved. The potential and positive relationship between hip hop and teaching pedagogy has existent exposure in the literature; this type of critical pedagogy has been termed Hip Hop Based Education (HHBE) (Hill 2009). Hill (2009: 10) notes that HHBE focuses on the intersections of hip hop culture, youth, and pedagogy, and draws on myriad theoretical, empirical, and practical insights to substantiate the importance and effectiveness of linking hip hop to education. For instance, Petchauer (2012: 138) developed a pedagogical practice based upon the hip hop aesthetic of “sampling,” a collection of techniques producers use to create new instrumental tracks, or beats, from previous recordings. Petchauer (2012: 141) argues that instructors can teach the metaphor of hip hop sampling to the student; instead of sampling beats, students sample material from other classes, disciplines, or approaches and integrate them into new sources.



No church in the wild

21

Sampling teaches students to rethink how to create something new from what they already have available (Petchauer 2012: 153). Additionally, Metro-Roland (2010) describes how the hermeneutics of hip hop can help teachers outside hip hop culture understand and reach students in a new way. The author argues that hip hop can encourage crossand multicultural understanding that will help both teacher and student not just in the classroom, but perhaps in life as well. Emdin (2010) examines how hip hop lyrics construct beliefs about the intellectual capability of the urban youth and how, by creating co-generative dialogues, hip hop ameliorates urban students’ alienation from schools. Emdin explains that hip hop “provides the tools necessary for a connection to science” (2010: 2). De-alienating urban students from the science curriculum allows disenfranchised students to discuss structures of the science classroom with those who they may perceive as the causal forces of their alienation (Emdin 2010:  10). The author notes that this task is difficult, but “reflection on hip-hop culture and an understanding of the nature of dialogue within this culture will improve conversations in a science curriculum intended for students who are a part of hip-hop” (2010: 11). If hip hop can be utilized in teaching and learning pedagogy, precisely what questions and themes can hip hop help illustrate in the college Political Science classrooms? What can hip hop teach us about these themes? How can professors use hip hop and hip hop studies to engage the college student and encourage their participation, both in the classroom and politically? The purpose of this chapter is to provide the literature within hip hop studies that is relevant in the Political Science environment. It is also a plea to include this literature within the classroom in an attempt to help increase students’ awareness of marginalized issues and peoples. It further serves to lure into the discipline students who may not otherwise be interested in political issues by appealing to their love of hip hop. This chapter proceeds in four main sections. Each section first establishes how hip hop discusses critical themes and concepts in the classroom. Each then contains a brief paradigmatic or theoretical overview of the concept as it relates to hip hop and concludes with lyrical references. The sections focus first on feminism and sexism, then racial, ethnic, and class politics, then religion and morality. The final section demonstrates how students can be introduced to comparative studies through discussing hip hop globally.

Pimps, players, and queen bees: Sexism, feminism, and hip hop Few discussions spark as much controversy in the media, on the streets, and in the classroom as hip hop’s machismo culture and objectification of

22

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

women. Although much of hip hop, particularly its “gangsta rap” variation, can be sexist and even outright violent toward women, hip hop also offers a voice to female performers. This section reveals the dichotomous worlds of hip hop by focusing on both its sexist anthems and its more liberating feminist paradigm. Teaching feminist theory and sexism can be difficult for even the best professors. Getting students to really care about or truly understand the importance and the theoretical implications of the genre can be even more difficult. Using hip hop to introduce feminist discourse may help students engage with this important concept. This section outlines the literature where hip hop and feminism intersect. An interesting classroom discussion could focus on whether hip hop is good or bad for women. Does it advance women’s rights or perpetuate a male-dominated society? Does it give space and agency to a female identity, or does it subjugate and suffocate the female voice? A majority of rap music perpetuates the unfortunate cultural espousal of male dominance whereby a man, in order to feel masculine, must appear superior to a subjugated and often objectified woman. Constructed gender norms require that for a man to be considered a man, he must behave in a way that subordinates women. Weitzer and Kubrin (2009) call this hegemonic masculinity. Popular culture and social institutions constantly reproduce this dichotomy as normal, and emerging generations, responding to constructed roles, try to act “masculine” in order to be considered legitimate male figures. Thus, the process is self-perpetuating. Within the “thug life” or “gangsta rap” styles of hip hop, an overarching theme is based upon sex and gender constructs usually displayed by a sexually aggressive man dominating and objectifying a docile woman (Jeffries 2009: 35). In this context, rap contributes to the constructed gender roles of a male-dominated society, whereby men seek to fulfill their sexual desires through women. Women are seen as a tool to utilize, rather than a person to cherish. A recent study concluded that although feminism in rap has progressed in the last 20 years, an overwhelming theme of the genre minimizes women by reducing their agency (Bell and Avant-Mier: 2009). Some scholars suggest hip hop may trick women into thinking they have agency when their sexuality is being exploited. Ross and Coleman (2011: 166) argue that a salient message within hip hop is that women’s sexuality (specifically in this case black women) can be exploited for external gain, which “likely serves to limit the range of sexual attitudes, behaviours and expressions deemed appropriate and can restrict the range of healthy sexual choices.” This is especially clear in lyrics and videos where women are portrayed as selling their bodies (either literally or figuratively) to have their material needs taken care of by a successful man. This research builds upon what is known as “sexual scripting,” which focuses on how culture shapes the perception and expression of appropriate and normative sexual behavior (Ross and Coleman 2011: 158). Ross and Coleman argue that



No church in the wild

23

hip hop contains the message that it is acceptable to be a “Video Girl,” a woman who uses sexuality as a means to gain access and success in the entertainment industry (2011: 160). That hip hop perpetuates such a message, and that the youth seem to accept this as normal, could be detrimental to anti-sexist efforts. Even more troubling is that, as Oikelome writes, “Much of the sexual exploitation in hip hop culture is done with the consent and collaboration of women” (2013: 87). The commercial popularity of hip hop may further perpetuate this constructed dichotomy where men, seeking to emulate their role models, believe that they must treat women only as sexual objects in order to be viewed as “authentic.” Studies demonstrate that men who watch hip hop videos where the man subjugates women express a greater objectification of women, stereotypical gender attitudes, and acceptance of rape myths (Kistler and Lee 2009: 82). In this context, hip hop dehumanizes women. As Rebollo-Gil and Moras write, much of black male rappers’ energy is spent trying to either keep women quiet or getting them to shut up. The rest is spent trying to get them into bed or in some cases even condoning or bragging about sexual assault/ rape which has the same silencing effect. (2012: 126) Kistler and Lee (2009: 83) argue that men in these videos are portrayed as powerful, assertive, and having sexual prowess while women are depicted as sexually available, dressed scantily with men ogling them. The authors argue that this depiction may provide the belief that sexual coercion is acceptable and that women exist as objects for men to play with (Kistler and Lee 2009: 83). Armstrong (2001) found that out of 490 rap songs analyzed, 22 percent of them featured violence against women. Building on Armstrong, Weitzer and Kubrin (2009) find that of 403 rap songs analyzed, 22 percent supported misogyny. Major themes found by the authors included “naming and shaming,” “sexual objectification,” “distrusting women,” “legitimating violence,” and “prostitution and pimping.” The above discussion focuses on how hip hop objectifies and subjugates female agency. However, there is ample literature that suggests the opposite: hip hop provides a liberating safe-zone for the female voice and allows women to overcome male-dominated society. Providing both sides of the argument in the college classroom engages students in this discourse and allows them to participate more than they otherwise might in a class focused upon gender roles. For those students already interested in these concepts, hip hop can provide them another route to understand and relate concepts to their peers. Rebollo-Gil and Moras (2012) argue that the rap industry is so controlled by men that for women to become successful members, they must play into

24

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

the dialectical described above. Rebollo-Gil and Moras go so far as to say that the music is not safe for women and that “Black women cannot speak freely” (2012: 128). They insist any understanding of hip hop that does not recognize its racist, patriarchal, capitalist hierarchy does not move toward liberatory practices (2012: 131). With their concern duly noted, it is important to acknowledge that many believe hip hop provides a voice to women and has liberating potential (Peoples 2008). Barbara Franz (2012: 279) argues that hip hop, combined with modern technology, allows localized and alienated identities to reach large audiences. In her recent research focusing on the underrepresented in Austria, Franz notes that many observed young female rappers sing themes focused on xenophobia, violence against women and other minorities, chauvinism, and integration (2012: 280). Hip hop provides a way for minorities to voice their oppressed condition to a large community, potentially enlighten them to the struggle, and even encourage social change. For a society that has otherwise controlled and discriminated against women—particularly black women—hip hop provides a much-needed outlet. Morgan (2005: 427) argues that female MCs use hip hop not just to develop their lyrical skills but also to describe to the world what it is like to be a young, black woman. Hip hop allows individual women not only to have agency but also to help younger generations situate the lives and values of specifically black, working-class women within the general American culture. Hip hop empowers women by allowing them to incinerate race and gender stereotypes. Hip hop demonstrates the value of all identities and gives voices to those that were once silenced. Hip hop has great potential to stir up social awareness and perhaps even social movements. This has been seen through the “political activism and participation state” of hip hop as an organic globalizer, which Malone and Martinez discuss in Chapter 1. Activism and participation occur through movements such as Vote or Die, 360HipHop, and the National Hip Hop Political Convention (NHHPC), which is devoted to getting members of the hip hop community to affect electoral outcomes. At the same time, hip hop is a tool of resistance for the underrepresented in society. Because hip hop has such a hold on contemporary global culture, and because it has vast marketing appeal, it becomes a vehicle “through which hip hop feminists can spread their message of critical analysis and empowerment” (Peoples 2008: 25). Hip hop feminism seeks to uplift and empower women and girls through a political education based upon feminist modes of analysis (Peoples 2008: 28). It attempts to bring self-actualization to individuals or groups in need of assistance through the dissemination of political education and institution building (Peoples 2008: 28). It can raise consciousness and create personal change from within, with the hope that once an interior change has been effected, the liberated individual will work to help others in their resistance. In a case study in Seattle, Washington, Gupta-Carlson (2010)



No church in the wild

25

illustrates how women use hip hop to become “Planet B-Girls.” In identifying as a Planet B-Girl, women claim space within the realm of hip hop and also call attention to the gendered practices that have repressed their contribution to the genre and to society (2010: 529). The B-Planet is actualizing hip hop; it promotes the democracy and equality of hip hop through community outreach and community building; it acts as an impetus toward the process of self-realization to spreading awareness. The artists also earn a living by practicing hip hop. In a very real way, hip hop helps women defeat the oppressive practices of society and the economy. B-Girls use their talent and voice combined with a safe-space to demand participation in a male-dominated society and to draw other underrepresented people into full participation in the political process to agitate change (2010: 517). Whether hip hop is good for women and how culture contextualizes and represents women have been contested. In 2004, the magazine Essence devoted itself to raising awareness about the treatment of black women by the rap industry. The campaign devoted to this cause, Take Back the Music, and its subsequent scribble board messages provided another outlet for social awareness and the potential liberating effects that hip hop can have. Ironically, the liberating effect in this instance was caused by the misogyny in much of hip hop. This dialogue helped create a space for the “necessary and productive questioning of the oppressive practices and institutions that harm black women” (Reid-Brinkley 2008: 255). The discourse emerging was one that sought to reinstitute a politics of respect for black women (Reid-Brinkley 2008: 255). In this instance, the sexism of hip hop created a safe-space to discuss the oppression of black women not just in hip hop culture, but culture in general. This section has shown how at the same time, hip hop contributes to misogyny and provides a liberating safe-space for women. It not only allows women to participate in the political economy of hip hop but also encourages other underrepresented individuals to find their voice in an attempt to effect change. It liberates by encouraging political mobilization, social movements, and self-actualized individuals. It balances the gendered discourse and oppression that minorities have and continue to face. Both elements are critical for students to understand, and hip hop provides a mechanism that encourages students to pay attention to and take sexism and feminism seriously. Perhaps hip hop in the classroom will even encourage students to have a greater voice, to realize who they are, and hopefully to effect political change. Now it is time to briefly provide some lyrical examples to demonstrate the discursive dichotomy above. In order to engage students and achieve serious learning objectives, professors should review songs in class, provide lyrics, and encourage students to evaluate how lyrics exemplify the above discourse. It is also useful to allow students to bring in their own examples.

26

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Analyzing misogyny and feminism in hip hop is not new (see, for instance, Beatty 2002; Cobb and Boettcher III 2007; Keathley 2002). This analysis differs in that it seeks to offer lyrics to bring up in the classroom setting. Rather than attempt to argue how rap is either sexist or feminist, it offers examples of both, befitting a classroom dialogue. One of the current most successful rappers is Juicy J, a former member of the Southern hip hop group Three 6 Mafia. Juicy J has the dubious honor of perhaps having one of the most sexist songs currently playing in clubs, “Bounce It.” A cursory glance at the lyrics demonstrates a sexism that honors women only as strippers and sex objects; the lyrics imply that women love to be in love with wealthy men. I love the way she slow dance, she make me throw more bands Grabbin’ as- with both hands, she in love with the dope man Further, the rapper implies that even though the woman wants a real relationship, he only wants to get high and to use her for his sexual desire. She complies with his demands because this is how she can make a living, echoing the sexual script of a “Gold Digga” (Ross and Coleman 2011). She wanna be my main chick, I was thinking different (different) Clap that as-, light our blunt, baby, let’s get ig’nant (ig’nant) She strips with the Gs, breaks cash like Li, she got double Ds, and ain’t shit free Came with my goons but I’m leaving with a diva with an ass like Serena and a face like Aaliyah Perhaps the most sexist verse comes when Juicy J relates the fact that the stripper does not have a good education and perhaps does not need one, considering she is a “doctor” of sexual pleasure. Redbone in some red bottoms, she ain’t finished college, she a head doctor Bouncing as- while I’m getting high as propellers on a helicopter He completes the verse by reiterating he is not interested in monogamy and that others should join in on the fun. He notes that her body and self are not worth even a bedroom for the fulfillment of his sexual desires, but rather, his car will work just fine. Let’s do it again, me, you and your friend We don’t even need a room, give me head up in my Benz These lyrics illustrate clearly that some hip hop glorifies women only



No church in the wild

27

as objects used by the hegemonic man. The stripper in this song has no personal agency, no voice, no existence outside her ability to perform sexual acts. He only values her body, not for its intrinsic goodness, but because it creates urges that fulfill his oppressive instincts. The woman is seen as capitulating to his demands and is assumed to enjoy it. “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke, featuring T. I. and Pharrell, specifically its accompanying video, brought about much angst, with many arguing that it is another example of hip hop’s sexism. Although more appropriately deemed R&B rather than hip hop, it is listened to within the same club environments and by college-aged individuals. It is important to pay attention to this video as well as the lyrics. A simple Google search will reveal countless news articles and blog posts dedicated to outlining how inflammatory and anti-feminist this song is. It has even been labeled a rape anthem (Koehler 2013). In the video, all the men are sharply dressed whereas the women are barely clothed; what little clothing the women wear is colored like skin to give the illusion, as much as possible, of nakedness (there is indeed an explicit version where the women are topless). The naked women vie for the men’s attention by moving sexually around them as the men gawk and view them through the eyes of aggressive animals. It appears that the entire point of the song is to demonstrate that women are nothing more than animals. They are naked; they lack any voice; they lack all agency; they are often holding odd animals such as lambs. Combine this imagery with the lyrics and the intention is clear: men own women, who are meant to be domesticated: OK now he was close, tried to domesticate you But you’re an animal, baby, it’s in your nature This clearly has misogynist tones. Additionally, the song contains throughout it the hook: I know you want it I know you want it I know you want it The misogynist meanings of this verse have been quite controversial for victims of rape. In Project Unbreakable, an online photo essay exhibit, rape victims hold signs with words used by their rapists. In a well thought out blog post, Koehler (2013) notes that the Project’s images pair well with Thicke’s verses, having the exact statements: “Thicke sings ‘I know you want it,’ a phrase that many sexual assault survivors report their rapists saying to justify their actions.” This verse is followed by labeling the women, first as girls rather than women, second as “good.” Good in this sense is conceptualized by the artists as how well the women grab the men;

28

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

they are “good” because they satisfy the male desire for female subordination and even dehumanization. Of course, women need to behave as if they are good morally as well, but in fact, they are depraved: But you’re a good girl The way you grab me Must wanna get nasty Go ahead, get at me Koehler (2013) notes that the phrase “you’re a good girl” suggests that a girl actually wants to be raped but cannot express it because she is a good girl: “this becomes further proof in his mind that she wants sex: for good girls, silence is consent and ‘no’ really means ‘yes.’” There is much more that could be written regarding this song, but enough has been highlighted to create a classroom dialogue around the themes of sexism and misogyny, especially when paired with the lyrics and portions of the video (if the professor deems it appropriate for the classroom) as well as, perhaps, the images from Project Unbreakable. As detailed above, others believe that hip hop lends itself to ideas of feminism rather than sexism. One of the most controversial performers for feminists is Nicki Minaj. A Google search of the artist will further illustrate the dichotomy of sexism and feminism in hip hop. Much of the online community views Minaj as giving in to the male constructed world that views women only as objects; another part views her as giving women a voice and safe-space for selfexpression. The very fact that Minaj has been so successful in a male-centric industry gives evidence that hip hop can be a liberating zone. Her lyrics lend themselves to a feminist worldview as well, empowering female agency and distributing this agenda to others. Although hyper-individualist, her song “I’m the Best” displays the theme that women are just as good as men, if not better, not just in the entertainment industry but overall. Minaj demonstrates that women can be who they are, how they are, and that their voices are legitimate and important to take seriously. It is a feminist anthem about the success of a woman in the rap industry. She starts by describing how hard it was to get where she is and that no one would take her seriously, and then emphasizes how in demand she has become: It was back in 07 did a couple of tapes. Did a couple DVD’s made a couple mistakes Didn’t know what I was doing but I put on a cape Now it’s which world tour should I go on today? See, you told me I would lose but I won. I might cop a million Jimmy Choo’s just for fun. Cause bit—couldn’t take what’s in me.



No church in the wild

29

She then goes on to express pride in her achievements, highlighting just how successful she has been. She expresses her full agency; she controls her destiny. These lyrics are empowering and this is exactly what can shine as an example for other women to follow: Got the eye of the tiger the lion of Judah Now it’s me and my time it’s just me in my prime Everything I tried to teach ’em they gone see it in time She specifically mentions that her success is a cause for celebration for all women: I ain’t gotta get a plaque, I ain’t gotta get awards I just walk up out the door all the girls will applaud. All the girls will come in as long as they understand That I’m fighting for the girls that never thought they could win. Cause before they could begin you told them it was the end But I am here to reverse the curse that they live in. Nicki Minaj gives voice and agency to the underrepresented. She not only demonstrates that hip hop can be a space for women, but her lyrics can be interpreted as helping deconstruct the male-dominated world, especially that of hip hop but also of society more generally. She presents a call of hope for women to achieve what they want no matter who has told them it is impossible. This section has developed the major issues regarding sexism, misogyny, and feminism within the context of hip hop culture. Its purpose is to provide the literature necessary to conduct a meaningful discourse within the classroom to inspire students to learn more about and to become engaged with feminist discourse and critical theory. The following section will follow a similar pattern but focuses upon race, ethnicity, and class.

Keepin’ it real: Race, ethnicity, class, and hip hop We mentioned that participating in a constructed gender role where the man is sexually dominant and aggressive provides a “normal” masculine identity where one appears authentic. This concept is a predominant tool in explaining race and ethnicity, and the research abounds concerning authenticity and hip hop. The concepts of race and ethnicity are contested in academia and can provide controversial classroom discussions. Controversy, however, if done appropriately and sensitively, can lead to higher-ordered

30

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

thinking for participating students. Approaching the subject through hip hop will only increase student engagement. Authenticity, according to Ogbar (2007), is a form of credibility that defines how well one knows and is a part of hip hop culture. This term is subjectively constructed, but much of hip hop involves expressing oneself as authentic, which means having “a masculinist black working-class identity that represents the core of hip hop’s character” (Ogbar 2007: 7). Olson and Shobe (2008: 994) argue that rap has been and will continue to be “an outlet for oppressed, inner-city African American youth to express their grievances against the institutions that are responsible for many of the social problems rampant in their communities.” In the seminal piece on hip hop authenticity, McLeod (1999) argues that there are six main dimensions of authenticity: social-psychological (staying true to oneself vs. following mass trends); race (black vs. white); political-economic (underground vs. commercial); gender-sexual (hard vs. soft); sociallocational (the street vs. the suburbs); and cultural (the old school vs. the mainstream). Concerning race, McLeod argues that “To its core community members, hip hop remains strongly tied to Black cultural expression” (1999: 140). To be authentic means to be pro-black; lacking blackness (either from not being black or from accusations of not being “Black enough”) opens performers up to charges of selling out or of being inauthentic (McLeod 1999: 140). His conception of locality also implies class belonging. For McLeod, whether one is from the streets or from suburbia determines realness. To be real means to be hard: authentic. He explains, “For many, keepin’ it real means not disassociating oneself from the community from which one came—the street. Moreover, it means emphasizing one’s ties to the community” (1999: 142). If one is not from the streets or is financially stable, one risks losing authenticity. Rappers attack others who are not a part of this authentic space. “Keeping it real” implies leaving out those who are not black, urban poor, and male. Authenticity is an exclusive identity, one that is hard to penetrate and hard to keep. Those within the hip hop community must remain authentic to be considered legitimate, and those that do not fit within this strict concept must explain why they are still authentic, even if so in a non-traditional way. Thus, women, the financially stable, whites, and non-black minorities must create a space for self-expression that appears legitimate in the hip hop world. Expressing one’s hardness includes degrading other rappers through constant one-upmanship. It entails constant re-imagining of the self in order to stay ahead of others. Ogbar (2007: 78) notes, “Rappers who attempt to secure and affirm their place in the rap game have often contrived, repackaged, and embellished their images to locate themselves at the center of what it means to be legitimate in hip-hop.” A complex relationship



No church in the wild

31

between what is authentic and what is hip hop thus ensues. Classroom discussion may focus upon defining authenticity and hip hop. Who can really take part in its culture? Must one be a poor, urban, black man? Or can women and non-black individuals be considered legitimate? This section will focus mainly on whether hip hop allows space to non-black participants and whether they will be viewed as authentic. Being an authentic member of the hip hop community does not necessarily mean fitting into the commercially produced notions of being real. For instance, Usama Kahf (2012) argues that to be authentic, one has to understand how and why hip hop developed. Worldwide, people have adopted hip hop to their own circumstances, and the rappers or the stories contained within the music focus on the oppression of the artist by authority figures. For these rappers, being authentic does not pertain to race, ethnicity, or even class, but rather is defined by individuals “who are searching for emancipatory and empowering avenues of expression in the midst of a reality that continues to shut doors in their faces” (Kahf 2012: 117). Hip hop is about giving power to those who do not have it, regardless of their physical conditions (Kahf 2012: 120). Although questions tying authenticity and race together exist in all parts of the world, none is perhaps more controversial and likely to stir classroom debate than white participation within hip hop. No artist better illustrates this phenomenon than Eminem. By all accounts, Eminem is one of the most successful rappers ever. Does his success express the fact that he is authentic? Does the fact that he participates as “the Other” take away from his legitimate status within the hip hop community? Can he be authentic? Rodman (2006) argues that Eminem is authentic, but one has to diminish the notions of race that the hip hop industry has portrayed. The racialized categorization of music is not natural but culturally constructed: Although it may still make sense to talk about rap as “Black music,” it does so only if we acknowledge that such a label bespeaks not some sort of essential blackness…but broad and tangled patterns of musical performance…that historically have been associated with African Americans. (Rodman 2006: 107) Rodman argues (2006: 109) that labeling rap as black music suggests an institutionalized racist society. The debate over Eminem’s authenticity provides a disturbing point, according to Rodman: the music industry perpetuates a racist society by trying to demarcate black versus white music and by enforcing the boundaries between races. It is the industry itself that manifests rap as black music and rock, for instance, as white music. If a black person wants to go into music, she must become a rapper. The debate shows how racialized American society still is.

32

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Dawkins (2010) argues that Eminem became a legitimate voice in hip hop culture not because race does not matter, but because he introduced himself into the scene as the white Other. Eminem walks the edge between sameness and otherness as a self-conscious, apprehensive guest (Dawkins 2010: 466). Olson and Shobe articulate that for white rappers to be successful, they must make their listeners believe that they have lived the experiences their music illustrates (2008: 996). Eminem’s life experiences, including his abuse at the hands of his mother and his upbringing as an impoverished white youth in a predominantly black city, allow him to be viewed as true to himself and authentic (Dawkins 2010: 476). Rappers must also represent where they are from so listeners can validate their authentic claims (Olson and Shobe 2008: 1002). Eminem does this by referring to growing up in Detroit, and criticizing other artists who claim Detroit but do not actually live there, such as the Insane Clown Posse. His urban upbringing and class consciousness relate well to the constructed authenticity of rap music as black music as “ghetto” music—that is, music for the disadvantaged poor. As Dawkins notes, “By emphasizing his white identity through the lens of class, he is most likely to gain black acceptance which fuels white ambivalence” (2010: 476). Although it may be justifiable for non-blacks to be a part of the hip hop industry, is it proper for non-blacks to appropriate hip hop culture as their own, as many white suburbanites have attempted? Rodriquez (2006: 645) argues that many whites have a color-blind ideology, which is the assertion of sameness between racial and ethnic groups regardless of existent inequalities and distinctive histories. Color-blind ideology removes race from the picture. Although the intentions may be pure, the outcomes are not necessarily just. It can devalue race politics in today’s society and, more importantly, can justify the current racial status quo. Rodriquez argues that non-blacks try to position themselves as cool by participating in the hip hop scene. However, by avoiding the inherent racial contestations of identity within hip hop, they ignore race altogether and do not recognize its importance within society (2006: 646). Adherents to color-blind ideology devalue the importance of race in order to justify their participation within the world of hip hop (2006: 647). They thus appropriate hip hop culture as their own. This appropriation and color-blindness often perpetuate the same racial inequalities they claim not to see (2006: 648). Color-blind ideology and white appropriation of hip hop culture then allow whites to claim they are not racist because race does not exist. Blacks and other underrepresented groups then remain continuously disadvantaged. What artists and songs can bring out these themes for fruitful discussion? The remainder of this section will analyze lyrics that highlight race, ethnicity, and class. On Jay-Z’s album Magna Carta Holy Grail (2013), rapper Pimp C illustrates the truth of authenticity being based on race:



No church in the wild

33

The reason why we like this, this jewelry and this diamonds and stuff, They don’t understand is, because we really from Africa, and that’s where all this stuff come from. And we originated from kings, you know what I’m saying? So don’t look down on the youngsters because they wanna have shiny things. It’s in our genes, know what I’m saying? To be a legitimate participant in hip hop is to be connected intimately with Africa. This song immediately excludes all non-blacks from being “real.” Childish Gambino accentuates his racial authenticity by calling attention to his love of white girls, which allows him to present himself as the black Other, thereby establishing his “real” credentials. In “Bonfire,” he raps: Okay, it’s childish Gambino, home girl drop it like the NASDAQ Move white girls like there’s coke up my a—crack Move black girls cause, man, f— it, I’ll do either Further on he continues the racial labeling as well as legitimizing his authentic-self by degrading women: It sound weird, like “nigga” with a hard “R” Fly like the log on my cousin’s 440 Eatin’ Oreos like these white girls that blow me Kendrick Lamar’s “m.A.A.d City” lyrics express a claim to authenticity through growing up and living in urban centers. In his hook, he sings: Man down, where you from, nigga? F— who you know, where you from, my nigga? Where your grandma stay, huh, my nigga? This m.A.A.d city I run, my nigga Further on, MC Eiht raps: Wake your punk a— up! It ain’t nothing but a Compton thang, G-yeah. Real Simple and plain, I’mma teach you some lessons about the street. It ain’t nothing but a Compton thang, G-yeah. How we do. In verse 3, MC Eiht heightens his claims to realness by reinforcing his connection to “the hood,” where he still lives. This verse also illustrates the “hard” mentality needed to be considered authentic. He demonstrates his violent street life: the essence of what many consider to be hip hop:

34

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

I’m still in the hood, loc, yeah, that’s cool The hood took me under so I follow the rules But yeah that’s like me, I grew up in the hood where they bang And niggas that rep colors is doing the same Pass it to the left so I can smoke on me A couple drive-by’s in the hood lately Couple of IV’s with the fuc-ing spray can Shots in the crowd then everybody ran Crew I’m finna slay, the street life I crave Shots hit the enemy, hearts turn brave Mount up, regulators in the whip Down the boulevard with the pistol grip Trip, we in the hood still So loc, grab a strap cause yeah, it’s so real Although he has been established for some time now, Eminem in his latest record, The Marshall Mathers LP 2 (2013), still seeks to make up for his whiteness by claiming authenticity via his roots in Detroit and his impoverished upbringing. His hook in the song “So Far…” takes us to Eminem’s motivation for being successful: his hometown: Maybe that’s why I feel so strange Got it all, but I still won’t change Maybe that’s why I can’t leave Detroit It’s the motivation that keeps me going This is the inspiration I need I can never turn my back on a city that made me (Life’s been good to me so far) He notes that he still lives humbly to remember where he is from. He claims legitimacy by staying true to who he was and still is: an urban man with a low-class identity. Here the artist tries to reach out to his community, claiming he still remembers and empathizes with what it is like to be poor and desperate to survive. Although he might not live on the streets now, the streets still live with him. Jed Clampett, Redd Sanford welfare mentality helps to Keep me grounded, that’s why I never take full advantage of wealth, I Managed to dwell within these parameters Still cramming the shelves full of hamburger helper I can’t even help it, this is the hand I was dealt to These brief snippets serve as examples a professor can bring into the classroom in order to illustrate themes such as race, ethnicity, class, and



No church in the wild

35

how they relate to authentic identity. Discussion questions may include: does race really matter to the question of authenticity within the rap game? Or is authenticity based more on being poor? Alternatively, does it mean being true to yourself regardless of race, ethnicity, or class consciousness? With focused discussion and lyrics that illustrate the above themes, students, engaged by hip hop, may better understand the complexities surrounding race, ethnicity, and class. Hip hop is only the bridge over which students may walk to make the connection. As Fraley (2009: 50) notes, “Even with its shortcomings, rap music is generating a conversation about race as it grounds itself in an open but understandably protective culture.”

Quid sit deus: Religion, morality, and hip hop Perhaps one of the most controversial and interesting subjects to discuss within a university class is religion and morality. Most students enjoy the discussion of whether morality is universal or relative, for instance. It allows for higher-ordered thinking and challenges students’ perceptions. The role religion plays in society is often something students can get excited over. Does society need religion, as Plato and Tocqueville suggest, or has it surpassed that need as Enlightenment thinkers argue? Does religion look the same to everyone, everywhere? Can one be religious and moral and still participate in hip hop culture? These are all questions that help engage students, introduce them to serious issues confronting society, and encourage participation. What does the literature have to say about hip hop morality and religion? Although there is an entire genre of hip hop devoted to a Christian audience, sometimes called holy hip hop (see Sorett 2011, for example), this section deals with hip hop in its mainstream form. However, a good classroom exercise could compare and contrast holy hip hop with mainstream hip hop and discuss the different religious and moral connotations. The question of authenticity could be raised again within this context. Mainstream hip hop contains within it its own expression of theological and moral understanding. Hip hop theology, as it has come to be called, is a worldly view concerned with how people live in the world and how God interacts with the situation. God is the creative power, and hip hop artists co-create with God (Watkins 2010: 330). Hip hop artists become new prophets. Like the prophets of old, hip hop theology maintains that God speaks to the people through these prophets of the hood; God gifted rappers with hip hop to inspire a God-conscious life (Watkins 2010: 330). The need for the hip hop preacher is evidenced in the fact that traditional notions of clergy are dying out: they no longer speak

36

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

to the issues of social justice that the victims of the hood need (Watkins 2010: 335). As the preacher has declined, the hip hop theologian has progressed. Hip hop is the church: the rapper becomes the preacher; the streets become the pulpits. As Hodges (2013: 98) writes, “Hip-Hop engages profound religious themes and has a capacity to provide meaning and hope to people who have been, in large part, ignored by many Christian churches.” Pinn (2007: 293) argues that there is a contradiction between the traditional notions of religion and the reality hip hop wishes to expose. He writes, “Yet, regardless of one’s take on such matters…there remains here an important tension, a type of wrestling between existential realities and religious sensibilities.” This tension is often present in the life of every human, who may try to live out the perfect religious doctrine yet must sometimes fail. Hip hop artists are no different. Yet, they seek to present a message of the divine to their audience, who might not be exposed to such a message. Additionally, their message may inspire hope in the midst of suffering. The hip hop artist becomes the listener’s savior. As some Christian theologians have asserted, Jesus Christ and His Church attempt to give strength to suffering. A message of Christianity is not that suffering can be avoided, but, rather, that Christ suffers with the world and gives voice and value to our cause. Hip hop provides the same strength to the hood’s disposed, or any alienated souls that listen to hip hop. Hip hop gives meaning to isolation and suffering (Hodges 2013: 100). Connor (2006: 9) notes, referring to the Fifth Corner movement, that the young men forming the group forged intercultural and familial bonds within their social justice movement: “Hip Hop became their gospel.” This group was disenfranchised in their predominantly affluent, white high school, and hip hop gave them a sacred space. The group often congregated in a specific part of the school, their own hip hop chapel. Thus, the movement took on a religious form. As Connor (2006: 10) notes, It was a designated sacred space carved out of a secular realm that provided…the opportunity for a community of believers to congregate, to compose scripture, and to generate symbolic and ritual activity that elicited a spiritual feeling that promoted an ethical posture and led to the development of a doctrine of faith. Although viewing hip hop as religious may seem blasphemous to many, Miller (2013) argues that if one deconstructs traditional notions of religion and reorganizes them in accordance with postmodern perspectives, hip hop becomes religious. Miller notes that what is traditionally known as religious is socially constructed and man-made. If one looks at religion as man-made, then what the world calls religious is relative. Thus, hip hop fits within



No church in the wild

37

the paradigm of religious studies. Besides, Miller notes that what is often religious is not actually religious. She writes, Rather than searching for the essence of meaning, taking a postmodern informed critical approach allows a shift of focus…This embodiment exemplifies what this project has been trying to arrive at: a religious rhetoric that starts not with the category of religion, but in and among the lived lives of human subjects. (2013: 179) In other words, religion is what we make of it. In religious circles it is often noted that religiosity is on the decline. In critical perspectives and in popular studies, however, Miller suggests (2013: 10) instead that religion has a different focus. This new focus can be found in hip hop. Religious studies in hip hop are not about finding inner meanings or an external, higher being, but rather about how human actions in hip hop culture accomplish effects through religious rhetorics. Accordingly, “Hip-Hop culture provides an opportunity to theoretically interrogate, develop, and rethink the category of religion as a series of processes that include construction, maintenance, and contestation” (Miller 2013: 12). This implies that the morality religion provides or upholds for society is also socially constructed. What, then, is the purpose of morality? Is the morality of Jesus Christ no more moral than that of Kanye West or Eminem? Does the Gospel of John offer no more external truths than does Hip Hop’s Gospel? What role does religion play in society and can that role be replaced by hip hop culture? What would this mean to the political world? These are all questions critical analysis and postmodernism force upon political theology, and that may also serve to engage students with these eternal issues. The following are some examples of lyrics that could prove useful. In 2012, Kanye West and Jay-Z, known as “Watch the Throne,” released a track entitled “No Church in the Wild.” The song first calls into question the meaning of religion, church, and God in its hook, performed by Frank Ocean: Human beings in a mob What’s a mob to a King? What’s a king to a God? What’s a God to a non-believer who don’t believe in anything? Will he make it out alive? Alright, alright, no church in the wild. Here we see the ideas Miller (2013) provides through critical analysis. Postmodernism asserts that religion and God are relative terms. Indeed, “Watch the Throne” expresses the same idea with the verse “What’s a God to a non-believer…” This verse means more when read in light of the remaining verses.

38

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Jay-Z’s first verse is full of religious imagery. This imagery in particular tries to expose religion, specifically Christianity, as a false or solely man-made religion: Tears on the mausoleum floor Blood stains the Colosseum doors Lies on the lips of a priest Thanksgiving disguised as a feast He continues to call into question the “truth” of religion: Is Pious pious cause god loves pious? Socrates asked whose bias do y’all seek? All for Plato, Screech Then, in a remarkable illustration of the rapper becoming the prophet, Jay-Z equates “Watch the Throne” with the Holy Trinity known in Christianity as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost: I’m out here balling, I know y’all hear my sneaks Jesus was a carpenter, Yeezy he laid beats Hova flow the Holy Ghost, get the hell up out your seats, preach Verse 2 is delivered by Kanye West. First, Kanye challenges traditional notions of morality. He notes that, because there is no church in the wild— the wild here referring to the urban environment—morality is redefined by the street preacher, the rapper. Morality is relative and defined by the artist. Here, Kanye denotes that the Creator indeed creates morality and that religions are designed to worship the Creator. The twist is that Kanye is God and hip hop is the new religion. Kanye manifests himself through a new morality of the streets: a morality in great conflict with traditional notions. Note that as the Hebrew God gave us laws through Moses, the God of hip hop also provides rules: We formed a new religion No sins as long as there’s permission And deception is the only felony So never fu— nobody without telling me This section has provided lyrics and literature to broach the subject of morality and hip hop, postmodernism, and critical studies with students inside the classroom setting. Using hip hop provides a tool to engage and captivate an audience that might not otherwise be interested in these



No church in the wild

39

abstract ideas. The following section provides some concluding remarks on hip hop’s utilization in comparative politics.

Conclusion: Internationalizing the student through comparative hip hop studies Making students in the United States care, or, for that matter, even realize that there are other parts of the world with different ideas and views of life, can at times seem impossible. Hip hop provides a useful vehicle to expose students to different forms of politics and cultures that they may not have been aware of. Studying comparative hip hop also provides a way to introduce students to variations in its form and style. There are myriad articles in hip hop studies that can be used to internationalize the curriculum. Much of this is focused within Africa and the Arab world, areas of critical importance for American students to understand, yet too often left out of the mandatory curriculum. For instance, Clark (2012) provides an analysis of hip hop in Ghana and Tanzania. The article examines how hip hop is used as social commentary as well as the factors that influence that region’s hip hop. Gana (2012: 26) illustrates how rap music resists the colonial, neocolonial, and capitalist oppression in the Arab/Tunisian world. The article emphasizes the relationship between hip hop and the grassroots revolution. Mose (2013) investigates the linkages between the global and the local cultural and identity expressions of swag and cred in Nairobi, Kenya. The author argues that each city presents a new form of expression or identity to hip hop. Not only is hip hop a global phenomenon, it is a localized global commodity. Hip hop studies also provide insight into the Hispanic world, an area that, like Africa and the Arab world, is all too often left outside core for U.S. students. Dennis (2006: 271) analyzes Afro-Colombian rap in an attempt to understand ethnic and racial identities as well as the cultural significance of the artists’ localities. The author investigates what makes something Afro-Colombian and studies the way international influences affect local cultures through hip hop. Souza (2012) investigates how hip hop influences production and consumption, specifically how globalization affects the localized periphery and provides there a new space for production and consumption in both Portugal and Brazil. Fernandes (2003: 576) looks at the diverse forms of Cuban hip hop, and the relationship between hip hop, transitional forces, socialism, and how globalization provides contestation over local power and race discourses. Specifically, the author focuses upon how hip hop promotes the message of racial egalitarianism. This review of comparative hip hop studies is non-exhaustive, and there are many other regions and peoples for whom hip hop is a way of

40

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

life. There is a plethora of information one can utilize in the classroom to “hook” students on the importance of an internationalized education. This chapter has focused on the importance hip hop studies bring, pedagogically speaking, to the university classroom. Professors and programs can use hip hop as a tool to excite students about the Political Science curriculum and teach them valuable concepts important to a well-educated individual. For all the ills critics accuse hip hop of bringing to society, it offers a cure for the lazy and apathetic students many of us are now experiencing. It is hard to compete with popular culture for students’ attention and interests. They are often focused on celebrities, television, film, and music. Instead of reinventing the wheel to attract their interest, and, more importantly, their persistence to graduation, why not meet them where they are with a hip hop focused pedagogy? This chapter is not an attempt to discredit other pedagogical innovations; rather, it is only an attempt at keepin’ it real.

References Armstrong, G. 2001. “Gangsta misogyny: a content analysis of the portrayals of violence against women in rap music, 1987–1993.” Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture 8: 96–126. Beatty, A. C. 2002. “Priming ‘bitch’ schemas with violent and gender-oppositional female rap lyrics: a theoretical overview of effects on tolerance for aggression against women.” African American Research Perspectives 8: 131–41. Bell, J. and R. Avant-Mier. 2009. “What’s love got to do with it? analyzing the discourse of hip hop love through rap balladry, 1987/2007.” Women and Language 32(2): 42–9. Clark, M. K. 2012. “Hip hop as social commentary in Accra and Dar es Salaam.” African Studies Quarterly 13(3): 23–46. Cobb, M. D. and W. Boettcher III. 2007. “Ambivalent sexism and misogynistic rap music: does exposure to Eminem increase sexism?” Journal of Applied Social Psychology 37(12): 3025–42. Connor, K. R. 2006. “The fifth corner: hip hop’s new geometry of adolescent religiosity.” Implicit Religion 9(1): 7–28. Dawkins, M. A. 2010. “Close to the edge: the representational tactics of Eminem.” The Journal of Popular Culture 43(3): 463–85. Dennis, C. 2006. “Afro-Colombian hip-hop: globalization, popular music and ethnic identities.” Studies in Latin American Popular Culture 25: 271–93. Emdin, C. 2010. “Affiliation and alienation: hip-hop, rap, and urban science education.” Journal of Curriculum Studies 42(1): 1–25. Eminem. 2013. “So Far …” The Marshall Mathers LP 2. Aftermath Entertainment, Shady Records, Interscope Records. Fernandes, S. 2003. “Fear of a black nation: local rappers, transnational crossings, and state power in contemporary Cuba.” Anthropological Quarterly 76(4): 575–608.



No church in the wild

41

Fraley, T. 2009. “I got a natural skill…: hip-hop, authenticity, and whiteness.” The Howard Journal of Communications 20: 37–54. Franz, B. 2012. “Immigrant youth, hip-hop, and feminist pedagogy: outlines of an alternative integration policy in Vienna, Austria.” International Studies Perspectives 13(3): 270–88. Gana, N. 2012. “Rap and revolt in the Arab world.” Social Text 113 30(4): 25–53. Gupta-Carlson, H. 2010. “Planet b-girl: community building and feminism in hip-hop.” New Political Science 32(4): 515–29. Hill, M. L. 2009. Beats, Rhymes, and Classroom Life: Hip-Hop Pedagogy and the Politics of Identity. New York and London: Teachers College Press. Hodges, D. W. 2013. “No church in the wild: hip hop theology and mission.” Missiology: An International Review 41(1): 97–109. Jay-Z. 2013. “Fuckwithmeyouknowigotit.” Magna Carta Holy Grail.. Roc-AFella Records, Roc Nation Records, and Universal Records. Jeffries, M. 2009. “Can a thug (get some) love? sex, romance, and the definition of a hip hop ‘thug.’” Women and Language 32(2): 35–41. Juicy J, featuring Wale and Trey Songz. 2013. “Bounce It.” Stay Trippy. Taylor Gang Records, Kemosabe Records, Columbia Records. Kahf, U. 2012. “Arabic Hip-Hop: Claims of Authenticity and Identity of a New Genre.” In Murray Forman and Mark Anthony Neal, eds, That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader, pp. 116–33. New York: Routledge. Keathley, E. L. 2002. “A context for Eminem’s ‘murder ballads.’” ECHO: A Music-Centered Journal 4(2). http://www.echo.ucla.edu/volume4-issue2/ keathley/keathley.pdf (accessed January 21, 2014). Kendrick Lamar. 2012. “M.A.A.d City.” good kid, m.A.A.d city. Top Dawg Records, Aftermath Records, Interscope Records. Kistler, M. E. and M. J. Lee. 2009. “Does exposure to sexual hip-hop music videos influence the sexual attitudes of college students?” Mass Communication and Society 13: 67–86. Koehler, Sezin. September 17, 2013. “From the Mouths of Rapists: The Lyrics of Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines.” Sociological Images. http://thesocietypages.org/ socimages/2013/09/17/from-the-mouths-of-rapists-the-lyrics-of-robin-thickesblurred-lines-and-real-life-rape (accessed January 16, 2014). Malone, C. and G. Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45. McLeod, K. 1999. “Authenticity within hip-hop and other cultures threatened with assimilation.” Journal of Communication 49(4): 134–50. Metro-Roland, D. 2010. “Hip hop hermeneutics and multicultural education: a theory of cross-cultural understanding.” Educational Studies 46: 560–78. Miller, M. R. 2013. Religion and Hip Hop. New York and London: Routledge Press. Morgan, M. 2005. “Hip-hop women shredding the veil: race and class in popular feminist identity.” The South Atlantic Quarterly 104(3): 425–44. Mose, C. 2013. “‘Swag’ and ‘cred’: representing hip-hop in the African city.” The Journal of Pan African Studies 6(3): 106–32.

42

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Nicki Minaj. 2010. “I’m the Best.” Pink Friday. Young Money Records, Cash Money Records, Universal Motown Records. Ogbar, J. 2007. Hip-Hop Revolution: The Culture and Politics of Rap. Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas. Oikelome, A. O. 2013. “‘Are real women just bad porn?’ women in Nigerian hip-hop culture.” The Journal of Pan African Studies 5(9): 83–98. Olson, P. J. and B. Shobe, Jr. 2008. “White rappers and black epistemology.” The Journal of Popular Culture 41(6): 994–1011. Peoples, W. A. 2008. “‘Under construction’: identifying foundations of hip-hop feminism and exploring bridges between black second-wave and hip-hop feminism.” Meridians: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism 8(1): 19–52. Petchauer, E. 2012. “Sampling memories: using hip-hop aesthetics to learn from urban schooling experiences.” Educational Studies 48: 137–55. Pinn, A. B. 2007. “Bling and blessings: thoughts on the intersections of rap music and religious meaning.” CrossCurrents 57(2): 289–98. Rebollo-Gil, G. and A. Moras. 2012. “Black women and black men in hip hop music: misogyny, violence and the negotiation of (white-owned) space.” The Journal of Popular Culture 45(1): 118–32. Reid-Brinkley, S. 2008. “The essence of res-(ex)pectability: black women’s negotiation of black femininity in rap music and music video.” Meridians: Feminism, Race, and Transnationalism 8(1): 236–60. Rodman, G. 2006. “Race…and other four letter words: Eminem and the cultural politics of authenticity.” Popular Communication 4(2): 95–121. Rodriquez, J. 2006. “Color-blind ideology and the cultural appropriation of hip-hop.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 35(6): 645–68. Ross, J. N. and N. M. Coleman. 2011. “Gold digger or video girl: the salience of an emerging hip-hop sexual script.” Culture, Health & Sexuality 13(2): 157–71. Sorett, J. 2011. “‘It’s not the beat, but it’s the word that sets the people free’: race, technology, and theology in the emergence of Christian rap music.” Pneuma 33: 200–17. Souza, A. M. 2012. “Globalizing locations: production-consumption relations in the hip-hop movement in Brazil and Portugal.” International Review of Social Research 2(1): 77–92. Thicke, Robin, featuring T. I. and Pharrell. 2013. “Blurred Lines.” Star Track, Interscope Records. Watch the Throne. 2012. “No Church in the Wild.” Watch the Throne. Roc-AFella Records, Roc Nation Records, Def Jam Records. Watkins, R. C. 2010. “From black theology and black power to Afrocentric theology and hip hop power: an extension and socio-re-theological conceptualization of cone’s theology in conversation with the hip hop generation.” Black Theology: An International Journal 8(3): 327–40. Weitzer, R. and C. E. Kubrin. 2009. “Misogyny in rap music: a content analysis of prevalence and meanings.” Men and Masculinities 12(1): 3–29. Winters, J. 2011. “Unstrange bedfellows: hip hop and religion.” Religion Compass 5/6: 260–70.

CHAPTER THREE

(Re)building the cypher Fulfilling the promise of hip hop for liberation Paul J. Kuttner and Mariama White-Hammond1

Editors’ note At the core of the concept of the organic globalizer is the notion that hip hop may hold liberating potential by connecting cultural and social awareness to social change and political participation. By no means does hip hop have to be a vessel for liberation. Neither does it have to connect cultural or social awareness to social transformation. On the other hand, the conceptual framework we’ve presented here focuses on how that process has taken place in the political development of hip hop in the past— and how it might take place in the future. The organic globalizer, in other words, focuses on one (and, we argue, an important) quality of hip hop that is both descriptive and normative. Paul Kuttner and Mariama White-Hammond’s work fits squarely in that framework. Their chapter picks up on the pedagogical potential for hip hop outlined by Albert in Chapter 2 and carries it one step further. Kuttner and White-Hammond introduce us to Project HIP-HOP—an organization Authors’ names are ordered alphabetically.

1

44

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

which trains black and Latino/a hip hop artists to use their art as a catalyzing force for social change in their communities. “(Re)building the cypher” makes the important connection between what we have described as phase 1 and phase 2 of hip hop’s development—between cultural awareness and social creation/institution building. They argue that Project HIP-HOP looks to build resistant, social and aspirational capital through the organization’s mission, a vital building block in creating durable institutions in civil society geared toward social justice. ***

Introduction As Tricia Rose (2008) demonstrates in her book The Hip Hop Wars, discourse about hip hop—especially its most popular art form, rap music— is highly polarized. On one side are those who dismiss the art form entirely, blaming it for the destruction of American values while using it as evidence of the deficits of black youth culture. These single-minded attacks serve as vehicles for blaming poor communities of color for the very oppressive conditions with which they struggle. Attacking hip hop as a source of, rather than a response to, poverty and violence ignores the structural racism and classism that maintain the urban ghetto, and, even more absurdly, frames the perennial cultural issues of sexism, violence, and homophobia as if they emerged whole cloth in the 1970s. At the same time, those who love hip hop can become equally extreme, celebrating hip hop music and related art forms uncritically. Hip hop aficionados present a united front by denying or ignoring the ways that hip hop culture intersects with sexism, homophobia, racism, and other forms of oppression. Any negative aspect of hip hop music, for example, can be explained away by stating that artists are simply “keeping it real”—as if rap were the unadulterated voice of youth of color, rather than an art form fundamentally shaped by an increasingly small number of major media companies and the amoral processes of capitalism. Individuals may hold more nuanced views of hip hop, and there have long been internal debates about the future of the culture, yet there is little space in public dialogue for loving but critical views. To admit publicly to systemic flaws in hip hop, many fear, is to leave hip hop open to the same old overblown attacks that the culture has been bombarded with for years (Rose 2008). Those of us committed to hip hop as a process of political and cultural liberation must not fall into this trap. We have every right to celebrate the ways that hip hop has served as a form of protest, voice, and counterstorytelling for marginalized and oppressed communities. Today we have ample



(Re)building the cypher

45

evidence of the potential of using the hip hop arts to support activism (Clay 2012; Flores-Gonzáles et al. 2006; Ginwright 2007), education (Akom 2009; Hill 2009; Hill and Petchauer 2013; Low 2011; Seidel 2011), political participation (Ards 2004; Malone and Martinez 2010), and even revolution (Hebblethwaite 2011). But we cannot simply avoid the more uncomfortable aspects of hip hop. In fact, it is through engaging directly and critically with the complexities and contradictions of hip hop that learning and transformation can take place (Low 2011). The integration of hip hop and social change work requires more than simply taking hip hop as it is and turning it toward political ends. It is about creating the hip hop artists and communities we need. As Rose (2008: 27) explains, for hip hop to fulfill its potential as a political force we must re-imagine it according to “community-inspired standards marked by a balanced, loving, socially and politically progressive vision.” In this chapter, we respond to Rose’s call to re-imagine hip hop not just by giving examples of how hip hop has been used as a progressive force, but also by exploring how to go about creating the kind of hip hop communities we need. The process we describe is based on the work of Project HIP-HOP (Highways Into the Past, History, Organizing, and Power), a Boston-based youth organization that trains young black and Latino/a hip hop artists as cultural organizers (Benavente and Richardson 2011) who can use their art to catalyze social change in their communities. We are: (1) a researcher and educator who spent a year with Project HIP-HOP (PHH) conducting an in-depth ethnographic study of the organization’s cultural organizing model; and (2) a one-time youth member and now Executive Director of PHH who has shepherded the organization through 12 years of growth and evolution. The ideas presented here have emerged from a dialogue between empirical research and practical experience. To envision the kind of hip hop communities we need in order to realize hip hop’s liberatory potential, we offer the metaphor of the cypher. The hip hop cypher, in which individual artists take turns performing and supporting one another in friendly competition, embodies hip hop’s roots as a form of individual and communal expression. Hip hop today, at least in its most widely disseminated forms, is out of balance. Building—and in some ways, rebuilding—the cypher means balancing hip hop’s tendencies toward individuality, competition, and boastfulness with the increasingly marginalized values of community, collaboration, and representing. It means supporting the individual artists while rebuilding the circle around him or her. (Re)building the cypher requires a process of (re)connection. Through engagement with history, political education, ritual, activism, and collective artistic practice, PHH connects young artists to their past, their peers, and their purpose. These three processes involve critical engagement with hip hop culture and art as a starting point for addressing pressing social

46

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

issues. Underlying these processes is an asset-based approach to youth empowerment based in the multiple sources of cultural wealth available in communities of color (Yosso 2005). First and foremost, PHH relies on the linguistic capital young people bring with them—their communicative skills, storytelling traditions, and “ability to communicate via visual art, music or poetry” (Yosso 2005: 79). At the same time, PHH works to connect youth with forms of cultural wealth that they may not have full awareness of or access to. These include: (1) resistant capital, the “know­ledges and skills fostered through oppositional behavior that challenges inequality” as well as “cultural knowledge of the structures of racism and motivation to transform such oppressive structures” (Yosso 2005: 81); (2) social capital, networks of relationships that can serve as resources for individual benefit and collective action (Saegert et al. 2001); and (3) aspirational capital, or “the ability to maintain hopes and dreams for the future, even in the face of real and perceived barriers” (Yosso 2005: 77).

The cypher So stay in your orbit, maintain safe and sound Like the planets each cypher remains perfectly round. (RAKIM, MYSTERY (WHO IS GOD?))

A hip hop cypher consists of a circle of people who take turns performing— rapping, dancing, singing, etc. Some participants beat out a rhythm with mouths, hands, or feet, while others perform or shout words of support. Cyphers are often treated as a friendly competition, and a space for artists to enhance their artistic reputations. The cypher harkens back to a time before wide access to recording technology. Although the cypher is still practiced today, emerging hip hop artists now have many other outlets for their skills, such as recording and distributing songs on the internet, and may have never taken part in an actual cypher. The cypher, then, carries the DNA of hip hop’s origins on the street corners and in the house parties of the 1970s Bronx. As a low-tech form of performance that requires nothing but people, it embodies what Seidel (2011) calls “hip hop genius”—the ability to make something from almost nothing. The cypher is as a useful metaphor for the kind of hip hop—and the kind of communities—that progressive cultural organizations like PHH are working to build. The culture of the cypher challenges the dominant image of hip hop today: the lone, superstar MC boasting of his or her individual exploits, be they commercial, sexual, or criminal. This dominant image reflects a capitalist cultural model, promoting individuality and competitiveness above all else. Individuality and competitiveness, often in the form



(Re)building the cypher

47

of over-the-top braggadocio, have always been a part of hip hop. However, for much of hip hop’s history, these tendencies were embedded in a more complex array of values, practices, and approaches. Such approaches still exist in many hip hop spaces, but mainstream hip hop has been simplified and pared down through decades of commodification and industry consolidation to the point where its most popular cultural products—commercial rap in particular—offer little raw material for envisioning and fighting for a different future (Rose 1994, 2008). The cypher offers an alternative vision of hip hop that incorporates individuality, competitiveness, and braggadocio while balancing them with their opposites. MM

A cypher offers space for each individual artist to shine, but it does so in the context of a collective. At any moment, one artist holds the spotlight, but the cypher as a whole is built on turn taking— “passing the mic” so that all have a chance to speak. Artists often respond to one another in their performances. As hip hop educator Emdin (2013: 22) explains, “During cyphers, the multifaceted nature of the cultural and verbal exchanges among participants leads to the building of communality among members of the cypher.”

MM

The cypher is often treated as a competition—a chance for artists to demonstrate their superiority. At the same time, it relies on collaboration. Those who are not rapping or dancing join in the beat-making and cheering. The battle itself offers a chance for all artists to improve through their efforts to one-up others. From outside, a cypher can have the appearance of a well-choreographed collaborative performance (Emdin 2013).

MM

Finally, the cypher is a space for each artist to boast of his or her own skill and creatively insult others—the foundational practice of rap battling. But it can also be a space in which artists can represent for their crews, streets, and neighborhoods.

At PHH, the cypher is being both literally and metaphorically rebuilt. This process, which embeds individual artistry in a collective, collaborative circle, is necessarily one of connection.

(Re)building the cypher at Project HIP-HOP PHH is a non-profit organization that engages mostly young black and Latino/a artists, ages 14 to 21, from across Boston’s communities of color. Blending artistic practice, leadership development, and community

48

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

organizing, PHH trains youth as “cultural organizers” who can use their art to catalyze individual and collective action toward social justice. PHH was founded in 1993 to connect Boston youth to the history of the Civil Rights Movement beginning with an annual tour, or “rolling classroom,” through the South (Murray and Garrido 1995). Over the years the organization has used magazines, radio programs, street theater, open mics, political education, public performances, and direct action to develop the critical analyses of young people and engage them in addressing the root causes of societal injustice. While most of the young artists who join PHH have significant passion for hip hop arts, they arrive at many different stages in their understanding of hip hop’s relationship to systems of power and oppression. Some have already begun to develop complex views of hip hop with critiques, for instance, of the misogynist tendencies of many songs. But for most, hip hop is largely taken at face value, and “negative” aspects of the music are explained as simply “keeping it real,” or as a form of release for artists. And for the vast majority of youth members, their understanding of hip hop is based on its current form, with little knowledge of its evolution over the decades. At the same time, youth arrive at PHH with a wide variety of understandings of oppression, power, and resistance. All have visceral, personal experience with racism and other forms of oppression, but many do not yet have the language to describe them as more than individual struggles. Some have a more developed sense of systemic injustice, but do not have the tools to begin addressing it, or cannot see roles for themselves in creating change. Therefore, in order to prepare these young artists to be cultural leaders, using hip hop as part of collective action for justice, PHH must help them re-imagine their place within hip hop and within the wider world. This process of rebuilding the cypher involves connecting youth to their past, their peers, and their purpose.

Connecting youth to their past Rebuilding the cypher is about looking backward in order to move forward. Young hip hop artists are heirs to rich legacies of struggle and resistance, including a multitude of efforts to use art and cultural work toward justice. Through these past struggles, communities of color have learned much about the workings of power, and about how to push back against domination. This “resistant capital” (Yosso 2005) can inform and fuel hip hop activism. However, young artists may know very little of this inherited past—even as it relates to the relatively recent history of hip hop. Therefore the foundational strategy of rebuilding the cypher is connecting youth to their past. Youth at PHH are supported in understanding the historical roots of



(Re)building the cypher

49

existing community issues such as poverty, violence, and mass-incarceration. PHH practices a form of critical pedagogy (Freire 1970; hooks 1994; McLaren 2003) that helps youth see the ways that their everyday experiences of racism and oppression are the result of long-running historical processes and systems built over time. Given its focus on cultural transformation, PHH spends significant time exploring how ideologies such as white supremacy and patriarchy have evolved over time, and how these ideologies uphold systems of power. In the summer of 2011, for instance, youth took on the issue of violence in communities of color. Through lectures, discussions, writing exercises, films, improvisation, and arts practices like Theater of the Oppressed (Boal 1979), youth traced root causes back all the way to the ideologies of the European slave trade, and the trauma that slavery and its legacy have left on communities in the African Diaspora. As part of this process, youth analyzed the ways that they may have internalized oppressive ideologies, leading to feelings of self-doubt and self-hate—a process of individual and collective healing (Ginwright 2010). Ultimately, the youth created an original piece of hip hop street theater in which they presented this story to community members, working to spread resistant capital more broadly in the neighborhood. PHH also looks to the past in order to learn from the ways that people of color have resisted oppression, particularly through arts and culture. PHH’s longest-running program is an annual “rolling classroom” focused on the history of the African American Civil Rights Movement. Youth pile into vans and travel through the U.S. South meeting civil rights veterans, visiting historical landmarks, and talking to young organizers. Youth learn about how music, theater, and other black cultural forms were integral to the movement, alongside direct action and grassroots organizing. This experience makes history feel more immediate and relevant so that, as one youth put it, “life is breathed into history, and history is no longer history but life” (Murray and Garrido 1995: 48). It also puts hip hop activism in a historical context as the modern face of a long line of cultural movements linked to political struggle. Key to the process of connecting youth with their history is a close study of the history of hip hop itself. Most (though not all) youth come to PHH with a very narrow window onto the history of the culture to which they are heir. PHH focuses on broadening this understanding by studying the history of hip hop since the 1970s, as well as its links with earlier cultural movements. In fact, one of the first things that visitors to PHH see upon entering the space is a long, lime-green historical timeline of hip hop that youth created in the program years ago. The timeline informs all visitors that when PHH speaks of “hip hop” they refer not only to what hip hop is now, but everything it has been. Tools for studying hip hop history include the analysis of hip hop lyrics, group discussions, videos, timeline mapping, and group improvisation.

50

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Through the study of hip hop history, youth expand their knowledge of how hip hop artists have been involved in social change, from early efforts to give voice to the reality of ghetto life, up through more recent involvement of hip hop artists in advocating against injustice. These examples offer shoulders upon which young hip hop activists can stand. At the same time, PHH members study how hip hop has changed over the years, particularly how it has been shaped by the influence of corporate media. Though corporate interests have been present in hip hop since at least 1979 (Watkins 2005), the discovery of hip hop’s profitability among white audiences, along with massive media consolidation, has led mainstream hip hop to focus on an ever-narrowing slice of life in communities of color (Rose 2008). It has also heightened the already existing strains of sexism, homophobia, and racist stereotyping. By looking closely at hip hop lyrics, and exploring their own relationships with hip hop music, youth develop a more critical lens regarding hip hop’s role in supporting oppressive ideologies. This critical eye serves as a jumping-off point for critiquing oppression more broadly in society, and opens up the possibility that youth do not have to accept hip hop as it is, but rather can help craft it into what it could be.

Connecting youth to their peers Rebuilding the cypher is about connecting young hip hop artists with a wider community, particularly other young people of their generation. Hip hop for liberation is a collective endeavor, and therefore relies on social capital—networks of relationships that can serve as resources for individual benefit and collective action (Saegertet et al. 2001). PHH works to connect young artists to existing sources of social capital, while also building new social capital among youth participants. The building of social capital requires creating opportunities for the growth of authentic, collaborative relationships with others. But social capital also has a psychological aspect that must be fostered. It requires a “sense of community” (Perkins and Long 2002)—feelings of trust, belonging, responsibility, and accountability to others. It requires a sense of “shared fate” among members, a feeling that our issues are connected and our destinies tied together (Kuttner et al. 2011). Building such a sense of community can conflict, at times, with the dominant hip hop culture of individual success and solo performance. PHH builds relationships among youth through collaborative artistic creation and performance. The organization creates public group performances, often in the form of street theater, flash mobs, or staged plays. In past years these performances have addressed mass incarceration, racial profiling, and environmental justice, among other themes. The theatrical structure serves as a frame in which individuals or small groups can



(Re)building the cypher

51

perform their particular art forms—raps, poems, songs, dances—linked together like mosaic tiles with central themes or narratives. Like the cypher, these plays make space for individuals to shine, while at the same time ensuring that all youth are dependent on one another for the success of the entire piece. Individuals must be accountable to the rest of the ensemble, and one person’s failure to attend or to commit fully to the performance affects everybody. These plays are usually created through an extended devising process, in which youth collaboratively create scenes through improvisations, writing exercises, and group discussion. This process gives all youth ownership over the piece, and a stake in the entire work—after all, one artist’s writing may become another artist’s line. Similarly, the PHH dance team has a practice called “the win-win circle.” This practice takes the strongest dancers and pairs them with some of the weaker dancers in order to elevate the group. The idea is that the stronger dancers elevate their leadership through teaching and the weaker dancers enhance their performance through learning. As a result both parties win and the performance is stronger. The strongest dancers are honored based on their ability to elevate their entire team and not just themselves. The social capital of youth is also expanded through alliances with other youth and adult community-based organizations in Boston. In 2012, for example, PHH joined a coalition of youth organizations called the Youth Affordabili(T) Coalition (YAC), which at the time was fighting to stop fare hikes and service cuts on Boston’s public transportation system. PHH’s contribution to the alliance was largely artistic—creating public performances linked to the campaign, including a piece of guerilla theater performed at a major rally. This alliance offered multiple opportunities for youth at PHH to build relationships with other youth working for social change in the city, including rallies, retreats, meetings, and other educational opportunities. At these events, youth have the chance to share their individual stories, and the reasons that they have come to this work. Engaging with history, as described above, plays a role in building a psychological sense of community among youth, a sense that extends beyond the walls of PHH to include wider communities. Whether traveling through the U.S. South, studying up on hip hop history, or exploring the experience of the slave trade through theater, youth are encouraged to see themselves in the faces of the past. It is not just “a” history, or even “my” history—it is “our” history. It serves as what organizer and scholar Marshall Ganz (2010) calls a “story of us”—a narrative that can serve as a basis for a collective identity. A sense of shared past—and an empowering past at that—suggests a shared present and thus a shared future. As one young person put it, “our people got here together, we actually have to stay here together.” In addition to learning about history, youth participate in rituals derived from African, African American, and Native American cultures. These rituals offer simple, yet profound ways to practice a culture of collectivity.

52

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

One such ritual uses the chant “pamoja tutashinda,” which is a Swahili phrase meaning “together we win.” Each young person puts one hand into the circle and grasps his or her neighbor’s thumb, forming a seamless ring. The group chants “pamoja tutashinda” seven times while stomping in a circle. Through this ritual the youth, most of whom are from the African Diaspora but may have never learned a phrase in an African language, are linked to their own history while taking part in a distinctly PHH tradition. Other rituals, also based on the form of a circle, include the Native American tradition of the talking stick, and the hip hop cypher itself. These rituals are important to making youth feel connected to the collective, promoting what PHH affectionately calls “the way we be.” This phrase gives a hip hop vernacular edge to the more common term “way of being,” and invites each young person to own the organization’s culture as their collective way of being with each other. PHH practices a pedagogy of love (Darder 2002), which often manifests in family-like relationships. Many PHH members describe the organization as a type of “family,” and the PHH space as a “home.” Of course, PHH youth bring many different notions of family into the space, as well as diverse family dynamics, often complicated by challenges related to intergenerational tension, poverty, incarceration, etc. The kind of family promoted by PHH involves a blend of acceptance and accountability. Youth speak of PHH as a space where they can “be themselves” and not be judged, where they are accepted for who they are. At the same time, they are challenged to grow and learn in new ways as they navigate the PHH community and balance their needs with the needs of others. Ultimately, youth come to expect others to “have their back” and to “ride or die” for one another. This practice of being a family extends to the way that disputes are settled in the group. Project HIP-HOP relies on the indigenous practice of meeting in circles, which can be formed to offer thanks to each other, to evaluate a project or performance, or to deal with a conflict. For example, in 2012 a young man was brought into the circle because his language and behavior were oppressive to the young women and they wanted to confront him. At the time he was unwilling to change because he felt the need to “keep it real” and not change who he was. As a result he was asked to leave the group until he could come back in a way that would honor what the young women were saying to him—something he was later able to do. This was a challenging moment for the group because this young man brought much talent and passion to the work, but the youth understood that the swagger he added was outweighed by the tension that he engendered. This kind of accountability, embedded in love and acceptance rather than rejection, is a form of love that is key to rebuilding the cypher.



(Re)building the cypher

53

Connecting youth to their purpose Connecting youth to their purpose is about challenging young artists to think beyond themselves and those close to them—to assess their responsibility and role in society as cultural workers. PHH posits that an artist’s development is not complete until he or she has a sense of personal mission relating to a broader community or audience. In doing so, PHH challenges traditional Western notions of the artist as separate from everyday life, as well as the trend in mainstream hip hop to privilege individual expression and “keeping it real” above a sense of community responsibility. Instead, PHH looks to African concepts of the artist as intimately tied to tribal governance and civic life (Hale 1997). At the same time, connecting youth to their purpose is about fostering hope and the ability to envision change. Yosso (2005) writes about the value of “aspirational capital” in communities of color—the ability to hope and dream despite real and perceived barriers. Finding your purpose, in this sense, involves both believing that change is possible for you and those around you, and believing that you have some power to bring that change about. At PHH, youth begin the artistic process by identifying key messages, audiences, and potential impacts of their work. These artistic and political goals emerge in part from the sharing of personal struggles, through which youth discover common issues and concerns. These goals also come from the lessons learned through the political education described above, as youth take on the responsibility of spreading newly gained knowledge. By focusing on the impact of art, PHH asks young people to see their art as powerful. This imbues the artistic process with a sense of responsibility, which is often considered limiting to personal expression. At PHH, thinking about impact is framed as a way to elevate creativity rather than limiting it—to challenge artists toward new forms and heights of expression. It can be challenging to some young artists, for whom art has served primarily as an expression of personal experiences, to think about how their work is received by others and the ways in which it might contribute to the very problems they oppose. But it can also be empowering. Youth begin to understand the power they already possess, and begin to see that they can have an impact on the direction of their communities. This is supported by the study of how artists of the past have acted as social critics, and as keepers of a people’s stories—from the use of Roman graffiti to challenge Julius Caesar, to the speaking drums that carried the story of African peoples even after being brought to the Americas. In order for young artists to develop a sense of purpose, they must first see themselves as competent and powerful. This means countering the low expectations that youth of color often face in media, schools, and other institutions, and helping them see that through practice they

54

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

can grow and achieve mastery. As psychologists like Dweck (1996) have shown, a major hindrance to individual development is the assumption that skill or intelligence is inherited and fixed, rather than malleable. This is a very common idea in the arts, a field where people are often seen as being either “artistic” or “not artistic.” When young people see skills as changeable—something they can improve through practice—they are able to develop a “mastery-orientation” toward challenges and new learning. At PHH, youth receive a rubric within their first month that shows which skills they are expected to master. They are re-evaluated every three months to chart their growth. Those youth who work the hardest are rewarded with the biggest and most frequent performance opportunities. This rubric, and the discussions that it engenders between youth and staff, helps youth to see and critically analyze their own growth. However, while individual growth and empowerment are important, alone they can leave individualistic notions of success intact. In order to rebuild the cypher, youth must also grow as leaders, who can build relationships and take action with others. PHH frames young artists as “cultural leaders,” creating opportunities for them to practice leadership in their neighborhoods. Often in coalition with other youth organizations, PHH members create art meant to catalyze dialogue and action around social justice issues. In 2013, for example, youth created a rolling flash mob that moved through three Latino, Asian, and black communities where organizers were working to increase the voter turnout. The flash mob encouraged people to vote, and reminded them about some of the core issues that would be decided by the election. This action helped members to see the value of their art in terms of community impact, and to construct a role for themselves as part of a broader change effort.

Conclusion Hip hop has served as a powerful tool for education, counterstorytelling, organizing, and social change around the globe. The question is not whether hip hop can promote justice, but whether it will promote justice. Hip hop is only as strong as the community that holds it together. Because of vociferous, and often blatantly racist condemnation of hip hop art forms by outsiders, the hip hop community has often reacted by defending all of its culture regardless of content. Project HIP-HOP is just one of many organizations and individuals who believe in the cultural power of hip hop, and who also believe that more space for critical dialogue and accountability is needed in order for the culture to achieve its transformative potential.



(Re)building the cypher

55

We are not arguing that all, or even most, hip hop art needs to be explicitly political. It should be as diverse, eclectic, and multi-vocal as the communities from which it emerges. Instead, we are suggesting that if we are looking to foster justice through hip hop culture and art, then there is often important groundwork to be done. We follow Tricia Rose’s (2008) call to re-imagine hip hop, and offer a process through which it can be done with young artists. The three processes we describe—connecting youth to their past, their peers, and their purpose—are presented separately for ease of analysis. However, in reality, they are inextricably linked. For example, through learning about shared history youth can come to feel a stronger sense of connection with their peers. This sense of connection, in turn, can drive feelings of purpose and responsibility to a broader group of people. At PHH we see this, metaphorically, as a process of rebuilding the cypher—embedding individual artistry in a collaborative, loving, critical, accountable, and ultimately justice-oriented community.

References Akom, A. A. 2009. “Critical hip hop pedagogy as a form of liberatory praxis.” Equity & Excellence in Education 42(1): 52–66. Ards, A. 2004. “Organizing the Hip-Hop Generation.” In M. Forman and M. A. Neal, eds, That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader, pp. 311–23. New York: Routledge. Benavente, J. and R. L. Richardson. 2011. “Cultural Organizing: Experiences at the Intersection of Art and Activism.” Animating Democracy. http:// animatingdemocracy.org/resource/cultural-organizaing-experiences-intersectionart-and-activism (accessed July 12, 2011). Boal, Augusto. 1979. Theater of the Oppressed. London: Pluto Press. Clay, A. 2012. The Hip-Hop Generation Fights Back: Youth, Activism, and Post-Civil Rights Politics. New York: New York University Press. Darder, A. 2002. Reinventing Paulo Freire: A Pedagogy of Love. New York: Westview Press. Dweck, C. S. 1996. “Implicit Theories as Organizers of Goals and Behavior.” In P. M. G. J. A. Bargh, ed., The Psychology of Action: Linking Cognition and Motivation to Behavior, pp. 69–90. New York: Guildford Press. Emdin, C. 2013. “The Rap Cypher, the Battle, and Reality Pedagogy: Developing Communication and Argumentation in Urban Science Education.” In M. L. Hill and E. Petchauer, eds, Schooling Hip-Hop: Expanding Hip-Hop Based Education Across the Curriculum, pp. 11–27. New York: Teachers College Press. Flores-Gonzáles, N., M. Rodríguez, and M. Rodríguez-Muñiz. 2006. “From Hip-Hop to Humanization: Batey Urbano as a Space for Latino Youth Culture and Community Action.” In P. Noguera, S. A. Ginwright, and J. Cammarota,

56

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

eds, Beyond Resistance! Youth Activism and Community Change—New Democratic Possibilities for Practice and Policy for America’s Youth, pp. 175–98. New York: Routledge. Freire, P. 1970. Pedagogy of the Oppressed, trans. Myra Bergman Ramos. New York: Continuum. Ganz, M. 2010. “Leading Change: Leadership, Organization, and Social Movements.” In N. Nohria and R. Khurana, eds, Handbook of Leadership Theory and Practice: An HBS Centennial Colloquium on Advancing Leadership, pp. 509–50. Boston: Harvard Business Press. Ginwright, S. A. 2007. “Black youth activism and the role of critical social capital in black community organizations.” American Behavioral Scientist 51(3): 403–18. —2010. “Peace out to revolution! activism among African American youth—an argument for radical healing.” Young 18: 77–96. DOI: 10.1177/110330880901800106. Hale, T. A. 1997. “From the griot of roots to the roots of griot: a new look at the origins of a controversial African term for bard.” Oral Tradition 12(2): 249–78. Hebblethwaite, C. July 24, 2011. “Is Hip Hop Driving the Arab Spring?” BBC News. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-14146243 (accessed March 2, 2014). Hill, M. L. 2009. Beats, Rhymes, and Classroom Life: Hip-Hop Pedagogy and the Politics of Identity. New York: Teachers College Press. Hill, M. L. and E. Petchauer, eds. 2013. Schooling Hip-Hop: Expanding Hip-Hop Based Education Across the Curriculum. New York: Teachers College Press. hooks, b. 1994. Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom (Vol. 4). New York: Routledge. Kuttner, P., A. Taylor, and H. Westmoreland. 2011. “Cement Between the Bricks: Building Schools and Communities in New York City.” In M. Warren, K. Mapp, and the Community Organizing and School Reform Project, eds, A Match on Dry Grass: Community Organizing as a Catalyst for School Reform, pp. 197–226. New York: Oxford University Press. Low, B. E. 2011. Slam School: Learning Through Conflict in the Hip-Hop and Spoken Word Classroom. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Malone, C. and G. Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45. McLaren, P. 2003. “Critical Pedagogy: A Look at the Major Concepts.” In A. Darder, M. Baltodano, and R. D. Torres, eds, The Critical Pedagogy Reader, pp. 69–96. New York: Routledge Falmer. Mitchell, T., ed. 2002. Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA. New York: Wesleyan University Press. Murray, N. and M. Garrido. 1995. “Violence, nonviolence, and the lessons of history: project HIP-HOP journeys south.” Harvard Educational Review 65(2): 231–57. Perkins, D. D. and D. A. Long. 2002. “Neighborhood Sense of Community and Social Capital: A Multi-Level Analysis.” In A. Fisher, C. Sonn, and



(Re)building the cypher

57

B. Bishop, eds, Psychological Sense of Community: Research, Applications, and Implications, pp. 291–318. New York: Plenum. Rose, T. 1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. —2008. The Hip Hop Wars: What We Talk About When We Talk About Hip Hop—and Why It Matters. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Saegert, S., J. P. Thompson, and M. R. Warren, eds. 2001. Social Capital and Poor Communities. New York: Russell Sage. Seidel, S. S. 2011. Hip Hop Genius: Remixing High School Education. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Education. Watkins, S. C. 2005. Hip Hop Matters: Politics, Pop Culture, and the Struggle for the Soul of a Movement. Boston: Beacon Press. Yosso, T. J. 2005. “Whose culture has capital? a critical race theory discussion of community cultural wealth.” Race Ethnicity and Education 8(1): 69–91.

CHAPTER FOUR

Men or monsters? The applied uses of the commercial rap artist Joy Boggs

Editors’ note “Though gender equity remains a persistent blind spot, rap, through its performance practice, provides a compelling site where masculinity is imagined and contested in unexpected ways,” Joy Boggs writes in “Men or Monsters?” Boggs’ self-professed “thought experiment” about black masculinity in the age of Obama leads her to conclude that: (1) contemporary commercial rap is one of the most crucial indicators we have of the state of racial/gender politics in the United States; and (2) the state of rap (and more generally hip hop) points toward an evolutionary reimagining of black masculinity. For Boggs, rap is a “virtual barbershop”—a site that offers unvarnished truths about black masculinity in a post-Voting Rights Act and post-Civil Rights Movement America. The evolutionary and developmental framework in which Boggs situates hip hop is intriguing. We recall the most identifiable image of eighteenth century abolitionists: a black man kneeling in chains asking the question: “Am I not a Man and a Brother?” Boggs essentially postulates that the passage of the Voting Rights Act answered the question “Am I not a Citizen and a Brother”? in the affirmative. Following critical race theorists, however, Boggs explains that the recognition of formal

60

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

equality did not necessarily lead to substantive equality. Hip hop, the good, bad, and ugly, is the “report card” on the post-CRM generation. We might not like the final grade, but at the least we know the work that needs to be done. Highly theoretical in its approach, “Men or Monsters?” signifies the power of hip hop to raise awareness and offer critical analysis on the current state of politics. It fosters an understanding of the relationship between misogyny and homophobia in rap and the rules governing black masculinity. The ramifications of her analysis are captivating: if hip hop points toward a new phase in the understanding of black masculinity in America, what will burst next? ***

The negro has his niche Warning: what you are about to read is a thought experiment. Experimentation can unfetter the mind and can, for a time, inject even the driest of scholarship with the most foreign of agents, namely fun. I designed this project because I wanted to know something about contemporary black masculinity. From where I sit (as a thinker, a woman, a writer), it appears as if we are on the cusp of a major evolutionary leap in black masculinity. I’m not just talking about President Barack Obama. Inasmuch as his re-election to a second term influences our current moment—historically, politically, and psychically—the President is a node on a much larger arc of contention and struggle over the recognition and inclusion of Black Folk in the democratic franchise. Furthermore and to the consternation of certain sectors of our delicate union, the Obama presidency marks a disturbance of seismic proportion to the historic and preferred articulations of U.S. power as white and male. The President is a tremor, the evidence of ongoing tectonic shifts in masculinity (Connell 1996). Like a hydraulic drill, hip hop fractures masculinity cleaving open fissures for novel and varied articulations of masculinity to come forth. The Obama presidency is one of many fissures cracking contemporary masculinity open. The further we move along in this new century the more clear it becomes that we are standing on the threshold of (re-)imagining black masculinity. This is not the first time in our history where our imagination of blackness was pressured to expand. Nineteenth-century social theorist Anna Julia Cooper astutely observed, “the negro has his niche in the infinite purposes of the Eternal” (Lemert and Bhan 1998: 61). The resonance of Cooper’s words reverberates across time into our modern day like the



Men or monsters?

61

bass beat in a Public Enemy track. Hip hop1 is the vanguard accountable for crafting a new imaginary underscoring the postmodernist maxim that “one is not born, but, rather, becomes” (de Beauvoir 2005). The cosmos of hip hop—dance, rap, and art—is a creative nexus predicated on the black body through whose “expression” epistemologies, technologies, and histories are brought to bear (Craig 2006: 160; Flores 1996: 143; Haraway 2005; Rose 1994). Furthermore, rap, as the most visible and consumable aspect of hip hop, drives the (re)vision of black masculinity through its pervading presence in the global commercial market. From its infancy in the 1970s onward, rap foments a discourse and fosters a discursive practice that sharpens the gender politics of contemporary black-white masculinity. Unruly and disruptive, rap wields power as an “unacknowledged legislator” in an increasingly fractured global civil society (Shelley n.d.). Rooted in and aligned with those left behind by desegregation—the poor and working-class communities of the urban North—hip hop is a poignant and “valuable rejoinder” to the middle-class, Southern Civil Rights Movement (CRM) of the 1960s (Dowdy 2007: 153). Put another way, hip hop is the report card assessing the achievements of the CRM generation. From this perspective, hip hop comes into view as troublesome and problematic for a whole host of actors—black, white, and otherwise—vested in delimiting America’s trouble with race to a brief and unfortunate episode of the very distant past. Hip hop emerges in the aftermath of the CRM as the “langue” of those left behind (Fanon 2008). Once the formal practice of segregation gave way to integration, the trinity of social, political, and economic mobility became possible for some black people. Professional and middle-class blacks migrated from urban centers to the suburbs leaving the working class and the poor behind in their wake. The urban ghettos of the 1980s are the aggregate fruit of black flight, federal urban divestiture begun during the Nixon Administration, and the wholesale export of manufacturing and union-busting accomplished during the Reagan Administration (Harvey 2009). Rap comes to birth in the maelstrom of structural social change in the United States. As such, we can begin to relate to rap as an emergent discourse given by the lived experience of contemporary subordinated and marginalized men (Barthes and Duisit 1975). Rap offers up a set of unvarnished truths about contemporary black masculinity. Misogynistic, homophobic, and all too often violent, these truths reflect the rules governing not just black men but also masculinity itself (Kimmel 2008: 45). These truths bespeak a coarse and unsanitized reality that is neither “easily understood” nor easily “erased” (de B’béri and Hogarth 2009: 96; Rose I will rotate between the terms “hip hop” and “rap” throughout our discussion. My use of the terms comes from Black Noise, where Tricia Rose defines hip hop as a social arts movement and rap as one of the three disciplines residing within that movement. 1

62

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

1994: 61). Yet, because rap articulates through the totem of the black male body it is anathema to the politics of respectability. Nevertheless, rap voices and records black masculinity since the implementation of the 1965 Voting Rights Act (VRA). Why is the VRA significant to a discussion about rap? Easily, the VRA is a keystone piece of legislation borne out of the CRM. However, the significance of the VRA resides in the difference between black presence and black inclusion in the U.S. American body politic. For Black Folk and for black men in particular, the VRA secures the right and codifies the authority to formally and publicly exercise power. Prior to the VRA blackness, and in particular black masculinity, was at the affect, or target of American legislation. Put plainly, prior to the VRA it was formally illegal to be black. A cursory review of American jurisprudence preceding the VRA reveals a deeply entrenched pattern of targeting and policing blackness. Follow the morphology and we can trace the evolution of the Slave Codes into the Black Codes into Jim Crow and on into the Rockefeller Laws. When we track this evolution in U.S. jurisprudence we come to regard the VRA as a fundamental disruption to historic and preferred articulations of American power as white, male, and intrinsically moral. Such a narrow definition for who qualifies to participate in the exercise of democratic power leaves little to no room for black masculinity. Banished to the fringes of the American body politic what little domain left to black masculinity is under siege. The Supreme Court decision in Shelby County v. Holder (2013) to eviscerate Sections 4 and 5—the measures put in place to ensure access to voting is open to all non-white males—gives clear evidence of a world order sustained by a legislative practice predicated upon white male supremacy. Working under the strictures of a racially bifurcated system, rap pulls up along the VRA to supply a sophisticated, imaginative form of socio-political discourse, “full of figures and drama” (O’Donohue 2012). Put in plain terms, the arts speak when a people are otherwise silenced (Rose 1994: 99). The paradox of speaking when silenced is beautifully illustrated in the way rap artists (re)purpose “problematic images” to expose and critique the underside of the American democratic project (Entman and Rojecki 2001: 4). For example, consider the visual imagery Nas uses for Untitled (Nas 2008). The cover art depicts the back of a black man covered in whip marks. While the image clearly references slavery, it also gestures toward the “matrix of domination” in which black masculinity is brought to bear (hooks 2005). The cover art to Ready to Die also sets a deliberately arresting scene (The Notorious B.I.G. 1994). Set against a stark, white background, reminiscent of The Beatles’ White Album, we find a six-month-old black male infant sitting upright looking off into the distance (The Beatles 1968). The child epitomizes innocence yet underneath him reads the words “ready to die.” The cover art speaks the hard truth of resignation to a system of aggression targeting black masculinity. Both examples illustrate just one of



Men or monsters?

63

the ways rap artists transgress “social conventions” (Worsley 2010: 93). Yet, even under the auspices of entertainment, transgression is a dangerous enterprise requiring courage and ingenuity. Hip hop’s demotic challenges the “hegemonic” order while at the same time vigorously lays claim to “patriarchal authority” (Gray 1995). Laying claim to patriarchal authority is a brutal, high-stakes endeavor. For example, consider the fortitude it took in 1968 for the striking Memphis sanitation workers to simply hold or wear a picket proclaiming “I am a man” (I Am a Man 2009). The Memphis sanitation workers used a picket to silently make their claim on manhood known. Paralleling their forebears, rap uses performance to advance the same claim to patriarchal authority. However, the difference between the claim in 1968 and the claim as it is articulated today is the degree of theatricality and the potential for profit. For instance, rap makes its claim to manhood known vis-à-vis the infrastructure of the commercial music industry. Rap tempers its dangerous claim to patriarchal authority with the allure of a performance practice that “synthesizes wealth, beauty, and notoriety” into an “enviable” and “imitable” possibility (Gundle 2008: 18–21). Because rap is classified as entertainment it is able to ride the flow of global capital, court corporate interest, and cultivate corporate sponsorship while advancing its claim to manhood. Rap artists use the mic as an access point to the global network of social and commercial exchange. Though global capital amplifies rap’s voice, enabling rap to contest for power, rap remains constrained by the demands of the market. The demands under which rap works intensify an already existing complex performance practice that balances a whole series of dichotomies: respectability and authenticity, homophobia and homo­eroticism, men and monsters (Hunt 2006). Even within the constraints of what sells rap deifies reductive Manichean articulations and deliberatively resists the either/or proposition vis-à-vis an “aggressive public display of counter presence and voice” (Rose 1994: 59). Much like their Memphis forebears rap artists, for good or for ill, are an irresistible presence that disrupts the nomenclature of masculinity. The langue of masculinity is a proxy for white supremacy, yet rap has found a way to “inscribe” its mark onto “an environment resistant to [men] of color” in general, and black men in particular (Rose 1994: 59). As a counterpresence, imbued with the “insurrectionary power” of the marginalized and the subordinated, rap thrives on the tensions endemic to the black-white binary, derives “pleasure” from “subversion,” and demonstrates the existence of multiple, competing realities (Ehrenreich 1989: 94; Rose 1994: 61). Though rap may be profitable, it is nonetheless a dangerous enterprise. Rap comments and critiques the underside of the American project. For example, when Kanye West says, “fuck the police,” he invokes N.W.A.’s critique of the systemic, institutionalized failure to fairly apply the equal

64

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

protection clause to black youth (N.W.A. 1988; West 2004a). However, West does not stop with the Fourteenth Amendment. Instead, he further complicates his opening declarative with the line, “We buy our way of jail, but we can’t buy freedom” (West 2004a). Here we observe West critique the putrescence pervading the sensibility of his generation (post-CRM) and handily dispel the notion that money can buy anything including one’s freedom. Packed in a tight economy of words, West echoes bell hooks and Patricia Hill Collins, whose works situate the activity of rapacious moneymaking as existing within a matrix of domination that ensures the “white man,” the euphemism for corporations, “gets paid” (Collins 2006; hooks 2004: 17). Commercial rap artists like Kanye West, whose work circulates in the global mass market, walk a tenuous line between entertainment and outright defiance. To all intents and purposes rap is a “potent commodity” tethered to other commodities like “clothes, movies, and cars” (Ehrenreich 1989: 94). Despite its commodity status, in the alchemy of rap the compulsory scripts marking black masculinity as savage and otherworldly transmutate into a “praxis” of (re)membering black male identity while living in a system “that feeds on greed and exploitation and views Black people as enemies or necessary burdens” (Madhubuti 1993: xiv; wa Thiong’o 2009: 5; West 2002: 92). Rap fuses the aural and the oral, bends time and space, preaches and testifies, investigates and cross-examines. It is in these ways, all while ensconced in the guise of entertainment, that rap explicates the intense, and decidedly complicated relationship between contemporary black and white masculinities. Black and white masculinities are tectonic plates moving against one another shaping the topography of masculinity. Though use of the terms “black” and “white” may appear reductive, when conjoined the terms evince one of numerous pairings within the larger universe of masculinity. Let’s break here for the moment. Now that you have an idea of where I’m coming from, let’s talk about where we are about to go. When we began I cautioned you that this project is an experiment and it remains so. I want to understand something about black masculinity after the CRM and I want to come to that understanding by letting gender lead. I’m curious to test the limits of performativity against race and class (Butler 1990). As proxy for black masculinity, rap gives me/us the opportunity to explore this art form in a different way. When I think about rap I think about it as a discursive arm in the universe called masculinity. Moreover, as we progress in this experiment I think we will come to see rap as the sanctioned channel through which black men of our day contest for power and position within masculinity. As I said earlier, we are standing on the threshold of a major evolutionary leap in black masculinity and hip hop is at the forefront of that evolutionary change. Butler’s use of the theater makes her argument a vital



Men or monsters?

65

resource to our endeavor. Butler disentangles the actor (the body) from the performance (the role) cleaving open a most uncomfortable space in which to consider the workings of language (verbal and non-verbal communications), power, and identity. The linkages between these three elements are as potent as they are nettlesome especially as they play out on the body. The body is both terminus and exchange point open to an infinite host of interpretations and inscriptions. Thankfully rap’s unruly body defies interpretation and actively resists inscription. It is in this way that rap, and those who practice the art, demonstrates the “dogged strength” of a “seventh son” to face hardship and win (DuBois 2004: 2).

Let us make…man? A couple of moments ago I said hip hop is the vanguard shaping contemporary black masculinity. Before we can really dig into talking about rap’s role in crafting new visions of black masculinity we need to discuss masculinity in terms of form and function. In order to do this with a measure of effectiveness, and without boring you to death, I’m going to pull from a number of sources from across a few different disciplines. We’ll start with the usual suspects like performativity and critical race theory (CRT). We’ll then turn to a few unusual contributors like communications identity theory (CIT) and multiple masculinities. Judith Butler is foundational to our discussion, so let’s get started. Reading “Performative Acts” is like listening to Bitches Brew (Butler 1990; Davis 1970). The material is dense; however, struggling to understand the text is so worth the effort. In quick terms, the thrust of Butler’s argument is that gender is socially constructed. But what exactly does that mean? Identity as a social construction challenges the factualness or steadfastness of identity. Put differently, identity, any identity like gender, race, and class, is a social “fiction” borne of language rather than biology (Butler 1990: 524). Social fictions become stable truths through repetition; in turn, repetition happens through language and is sustained through actions. To this end CIT provides useful thinking on the link between language and social reality. CIT evolved out of a line of research focused on “ethnic identity and interethnic communication” (Hecht et al. 2005: 264). CIT examines the communication differences between ethnic groups as well as describes the essential qualities of intra- and inter-group communication practices (Hecht et al. 2005: 261). The CIT model marries identity to communication (verbal and non-verbal modes) and contends the activity of communication as the “enactment of identity” (Hecht et al. 2005: 261). Enactment is analogous to embodiment; however, for Butler enactment is evidence of a “cultivated body” whose performances take

66

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

place in “culturally restricted spaces” and are measured against established “interpretations” and known “directives” (Butler 1990: 524, 526). Even in the context of the theater, a space meant for the broad exploration of fantasy, Butler emphasizes politics as being embedded in the corpus (bookmark this idea; we’ll come back to it shortly). By rejecting the notion of identity as unified and timeless Butler forces us to confront identity as “tenuously constituted in time” (Butler 1990: 519). A tenuous relationship with time is a disturbing and necessary indictment against the constancy of a unified identity. Butler takes advantage of this disquieting allegation to rend our dependence on biology. Once disentangled, Butler moves our thinking more firmly toward the methods and mechanisms regulating identity and identity performance. The chief method for maintaining identity is “repetition” (Butler 1990: 519). In this instance, repetition foregrounds the mundane, “corporeal” acts, those unconscious gestures, movements, and behaviors through which identity attains its stability (Butler 1990: 521). The body performs; it enacts identity either passively or actively. Enactment sanctions, or lends credibility to identity. Over time the visual and semantic vocabulary arising out of repeated corporeal acts produces “sediment” that reifies and regulates identity (Butler 1990: 523). Reification and regulation invoke a set of politics and power relations that extend to any kind of social performance (e.g. race, class, and orientation). Enactment, when repeated over time, teaches the social actor how to be yet it also regulates what to be. For example, ethnographer C. J. Pascoe (2007), author of Dude, You’re a Fag, studies identity formation among American teens. Documenting the contest for homecoming king at a northern California high school, Pascoe reconfigures this annual event as an intricate fertility rite replete with demonstrations of strength, courage, and sexual prowess (2007: 15). The rite does not take place in the shadows; rather, the event takes place in the presence of the school community. The teens’ immediate elders—parents, teachers, and school administrators— facilitate and witness the ritual. Their presence and participation ensures the transfer of knowledge thereby binding the generations together. For the adults, the ritual reaffirms the social world order and their position within that world. For the teens, the ritual affirms their acceptance of their world order and their transitional position within that world. Echoing Butler, Pascoe contends that the teen subjects are fully and unconsciously engaged in the process of becoming adults. In this sense, enactment foregrounds a concealed and unconscious jurisprudence that when transgressed results in material consequences if not outright “punishments” (Butler 1990: 528). Fear is necessary to effectuate a de facto system that organizes and regulates a group’s social structure.2 In contrast to a de jure system, which The fear of penalty could explain the persistence of stereotypes like the black criminal in the rap universe. 2



Men or monsters?

67

is formal and institution based, a de facto system is informal and practice based. Furthermore, a de facto system relies heavily upon the hidden and the precognitive. Sacralizing the mundane insulates the system from critical evaluation (Isherwood 2000). Fear of reprisal provides an additional layer of protection to the system. The symbolic play of ritual is purposefully heightened by the threat of punishment. Under these circumstances the act of performing, as in doing identity right, becomes a “project” of “survival” (Butler 1990: 522). Doing identity accentuates comportment, a non-verbal form of communication, as determinative of life or death. While Butler’s argument centers on gender and gender construction, the principles of performance she relies on are dispositive of an intricate network of checks and balances designed to reify identity. Butler provides a basal introduction to an intricate and invisible system. On the other hand, CRT furthers her findings to address the dynamic interaction between systems of control and individual social actors. CRT emanates from contemporary legal scholarship making it well suited to supply a calculus to account for the connections between the representational, political, and material dynamics of a regulatory system that rewards and privileges the performances of some identities while criminalizing and subordinating the performances of others (Lawrence et al. 1993). CRT’s sensitivity to the vertical and horizontal aspects of an identity regulatory system expands upon performativity so as to attend multiple socio-cultural markers as concurrent sites of intersection or points of convergence (Crenshaw 1991). The geometry of regulating identity is simple enough to make discerning the vertical and horizontal axes easy. For example, vertically the subject subordinates the object. This simple one-to-one ratio of domination is replicated in other binary sets like the masculine subordinating the feminine. This kind of uncomplicated domination on the vertical axis is contrasted by the volatility on the horizontal axis. On the horizontal axis subject and object are multiple and unlike the vertical, subjects and objects contend one another. Subjects contending with objects aligns with CIT and Butler in that each proffers identity as contingent and relational. Sociologists R. W. Connell and Michael Kimmel further the political thought line and bring us into a contemporary discussion of masculinity as a gender practice (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005). Like Butler, Connell and Kimmel reject the fixity of a unitary of absolute masculinity. Instead, they embrace masculinity as a set of varied expressions and performances. Neutralizing biological determinism in favor of a “network of arguments” Connell and Kimmel follow Butler and guide us toward understanding masculinity as a discourse (Connell 1985: 261). Masculinity as a discourse makes it possible to accept masculinity as a role with an infinite number of possible performance approaches. Connell furthers the thought by identifying the four archetypal tropes prevalent in masculinity. The four tropes, hegemonic, complicit, subordinate, and marginal, open a window

68

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

onto the mechanics of masculinity. Hegemonic masculinity is the dominant one. Hegemonic masculinity embodies the preferred attributes of a given universe. Within commercial rap, the hegemonic is enacted by the gangsta. Artists like Dr. Dre and Eminem perform the toughness and irreverence that fuels rap’s mystique with a mixture of “fear and reverence” (de B’béri and Hogarth 2009: 93). Complicit masculinity colludes with the hegemonic, benefits materially and psychologically from the hegemonic, yet refrains from enacting all of the hegemonic’s attributes. The complicit artists, like Jay-Z and Kanye West’s intensely sophisticated performances, secure rap’s position as cool, glamorous, and, most importantly, profitable. Subordinated masculinity is “oppressed” by the hegemonic (Pascoe 2007: 7). Who’s oppressed in rap? Women. With the exception of a rare and elite few, women are verboten from rap. Why? Because women on the mic “profoundly transgress” hip hop’s androcentric domain (Irving 1993: 107). Subordinated masculinity is treated punitively and at times criminally but it is never dismissed from the bounds of masculinity. Instead, subordinated masculinity appears to function in a peculiar tension with the hegemonic. Marginalized masculinity operates on the outer edges of the assemblage and maintains a conspicuous distance from the hegemonic. Marginalized hip hop is best embodied by socially conscious artists like The Roots, Talib Kweli, dead prez, and a host of others who never make it into the mass market. The interplay between the four tropes is further heightened by the principles governing masculinity. Kimmel explicates these through the “Guy Code” (Kimmel 2008: 45–6). The four tenets of the Guy Code supply masculinity with its structure and vocabulary. As with any system of laws, actors performing masculinity must abide by the rules or face retribution. Like the Black Codes of our forebears, the Guy Code is obsessed with repudiating the Other, in this instance femininity (Kimmel 2008: 45). Fear of the feminine Other haunts the Guy Code. The first tenet, “no sissy stuff,” captures the fear of the feminine. The second tenet, be a “big wheel,” marries status to the accumulation of material goods like money, cars, and women. The third tenet, be a “sturdy oak,” conjoins dependability with emotional detachment. And the last tenet, “give ’em hell,” encourages aggression and risk taking (Kimmel 2008: 45–6). With the Guy Code in mind, the play between the four tropes comes into view as a dramatic rendering or portrayal of shared meanings. Follow the line of arguments from Butler to Connell through to Kimmel and the practice of masculinity takes on the look of symbolic play. Symbolic play—or ritual play—establishes the official reading and informs the sanctioned interpretation of a group’s cosmology. Ritual play structures a group’s world order, thereby driving the group’s epistemology. The spectacle of ritual, the enactment of a role or roles, attracts and holds the social actor in the practice. Masculinity is a tightly woven network of



Men or monsters?

69

enactments. The four tropes serve as the base for a wide variety of performances all of which are “relationally situated” (Nakayama and Krizek 1995: 296). The tropes “mutually define each other” to such an extent that no one type of masculinity is intelligible without its counterparts (Flores 1996: 147; Worsley 2010: 78). Performing masculinity foments a vigorous contest between actors to test and prove their particular iteration not to an audience of outsiders but rather to each other (Anderson 2005: 24). Masculinity is a dense and insular network. Self-governing power and position rise and fall with an actor’s performance. Actors who perform their role well are rewarded. Conversely, actors who do not perform well are penalized. Socio-cultural markers like race, ethnicity, and class increase the level of complexity, risk, and nuance in an actor’s performance. For black and white masculinities in the United States, the tension endemic to their pairing relies on the “historical grammar” of colonialism (de B’béri and Hogarth 2009: 93). The syntax of colonialism rests on a white supremacist rhetoric governed by a principle that transfigures “racism, genocide, sexism, nationalism, and the inequitable distribution of capital and resources” into a series of “necessary acts” (Buescher and Ono 1996: 253). The white hero and the black villain, archetypes sitting at the heart of this rhetoric, demonstrate the near symbiotic tie between the two masculinities. More importantly, the symbiosis between the two masculinities provides a glimpse into the snarl of subject positions rap navigates in order to sharpen the deeply entrenched tensions between black and white masculinities.

Rooms of his own If rap is a discursive tool, how does it inform, shape, and/or facilitate the relationship between black and white masculinities? Working in a matrix of constraints borne out of the intersection of race, class, and gender, rap authors signs and meanings. The creative “work” of rap engenders “room” wherein social actors foment “responses” and initiate “dialogues” with other actors (Flores 1996: 143; Pratt 1991: 34; Woolf 2009). The pocket or space rap holds open within its relationship to white masculinity echoes Virginia Woolf’s entreaty to women to carve out rooms of their own. Writing theorist Thomas West (2002) furthers Woolf’s call for space with a demand for “safe houses” (West 2002: 92). In calling for safe houses West attends to the hazards of “counterpresence and voice” thus emphasizing the monumental shift in contemporary human infrastructure (Rose 1994: 59). The “venerable institutions” of my father’s generation, like the fraternal lodge, the deacon’s board, and the bowling league gradually eroded with desegregation (Kimmel 2008: 29). The social infrastructure of past generations were progressively replaced by commercial interest leaving social

70

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

actors free “agents of their own socialization” (Kimmel 2008: 29). Rap attempts to fill the gaps left by a disintegrating socialscape. By doing so, rap provides an “alternative public sphere” where the common experiences (in)forming black masculinity are made visible and known (Flores 1996: 143; Novek 2005: 292). In this way rap serves black masculinity as a source of “shelter” and a provider of “meaning” (O’Donohue 2004: 2). Sheltered under the eaves of rap is a “praxis” of reclamation and reinvention (wa Thiong’o 2009; West 2002: 92). Rap recovers community knowledges and repurposes communal assets like anger and channels these into “the development of alternative perspectives and thoughtful social action” (West 2002: 93). Though it is at times difficult to fully discern commercial rap as a form of thoughtful social action, rap is to all intents and purposes “a site of ideological struggle” that attends/responds/negotiates white supremacist discourse (Novek 2005: 292). For example, consider the first three titles in Kanye West’s discography: College Dropout (2004b), Late Registration (2005), and Graduation (2007). The collection clearly situates Kanye in the heretofore novel locale of the college experience. By placing himself on the college campus Kanye refracts the whole notion of meritocracy (social advancement through higher education) through the lens of the black collegian thereby subverting the expectations set by white supremacist discourse. Furthermore, by introducing the black collegian into the rap/hip hop practice, Kanye enlargens the pantheon of permissable rap characters beyond the stereotypical criminal triad of hustler, pimp, and gangsta. Kanye exemplifies the extreme levels of complexity and the highly nuanced walk commercial artists take to facilitate contemporary black masculinity. Where Kanye claims new realms in which to express black masculinity his creative partner Jay-Z makes use of the historical grammar. Looking at Jay-Z’s first three releases, Reasonable Doubt (1996), In My Lifetime, Vol. 1 (1997), and Vol 2 … Hard Knock Life (1998) we find his offering to be firmly anchored in streetlife. However, Jay-Z recalibrates the Protestant principle of social advancement through hard work and applies it to the project of breaking historic and structural patterns of exclusion and exploitation. Where Jay-Z uses the familiar terrain of project life to articulate his evolution from local hustler to international superstar, Kanye contests white supremacist articulations of black life vis-à-vis the college campus. Even though both artists successfully subvert the primary discourse, what’s less discernible is how each artist, by taking different approaches, stretches the idea of counterpresence, the advancing of alternative narratives, into a full-on radical disruption of dominant discourse. Rap does not seek détente; rather, it seeks a fundamental shift in a paradigm that naturalizes the inherent authority of whiteness (Nakayama and Krizek 1995: 300). Don’t believe me? Good. Let’s work with this idea.



Men or monsters?

71

Remember rap, and by extension hip hop, is an “instrument” for expressing the “embodied experience” of contemporary black masculinity (Dowdy 2007: 190). To be sure, there are women in hip hop; however, only a select few have breached the sacred preserve of commercial rap. I am as curious as you are to see how rap evolves as more women step to the mic—but that’s a discussion for another day. For right now, it is sufficient to define rap as a men-only conversation occurring in a men-only space. In other words, we need to start thinking of rap as a virtual barber’s shop. Rap is the way men can talk to, for, and about each other free of the fear of sanction. Yet, the talk that happens among men is predicated on a black male body whose very presence incites a “paradoxical” response of “fear and reverance” (de B’béri and Hogarth 2009: 93). The paradox of fear and reverence gestures toward the “containment” of pleasure (Rose 1991: 277). The containment and/or policing of pleasure is companionate to the fear ruling gender performance. Containment is necessary to systems of control. Tricia Rose observes the patterns of containment developed during slavery to regulate black bodies are alive and well today. These historical patterns of containment and policing reify the belief that black bodies in general and black male bodies in particular are “an element that if allowed to roam freely will threaten the social order” (Rose 1991: 277). However, even within pervasive systems of domination social actors have access to, and experience pleasure (Craig 2005: 164). To be clear, when I talk about pleasure I’m talking about something other than banal carnality. For our purposes together in this discussion, I want us to think about pleasure in terms of Audre Lorde’s (2007) definition of the erotic. Lorde defines the erotic as the “energy” or “power of unexpressed and unrecognized [human] feeling” (Lorde 2007: 53). Lorde’s definition expands the borders of power beyond the application of brute force. Furthermore, Lorde does us the favor of messing with the trinity of contemporary power (“political,” “ideological,” and “economic”) in order to have us recognize the “dark,” “ancient,” and “hidden” power given by deep human feeling (Lorde 2007: 36). Where does deep human feeling reside if not in the body? Maxine Leeds Craig responds to the question with the assurance that “bodies” and what they do are a “principle [sic] means of [human] expression” (Craig 2006: 160). Craig reinforces the link between feelings, bodies, and actions to underscore how bodies, when given by feelings, form the means by which social actors, like rap artists, resist systems of control (Craig 2006: 159). The near automatic dismissal of pleasure and, by extension, the erotic, is a reaction to long-held prohibitions on feelings (e.g. passions) particularly as these manifest broadly in bodies and more specifically in bodies marked as “not of this world.” The restriction on feelings, especially deep feelings, is a regulatory control used to manage the social order. Pleasure is an exercise of black agency. In turn, black pleasure or more pointedly the daring to claim a right to pleasure is a transgressive act. How

72

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

so? Agency begets self-possession and self-possession is an act of defiance (Rose 1991: 277). For example, rap openly “celebrates” black masculinity’s “alien status” (Rose 1991: 277). Let’s consider how that celebration manifests in the title to Lil Wayne’s 2010 CD release, I Am Not a Human Being (Wayne 2010). Here, as Wayne celebrates his otherness he also contributes to reifying black masculinity as beings of another order. Even though Wayne’s celebration of otherness occurs within the boundaries of the performance stage and is sanctioned by the market, his declaration is nevertheless a disturbance to the social order of the same order of magnitude as the Memphis sanitation workers. Like their forebears, rap artists disturb the peace of the social order. Consider how Christopher Bridges (aka Ludacris) plays to the paradox of fear and reverence. In 2005 the rap star released the CD entitled, Ludacris Presents…Disturbing Tha Peace (Ludacris 2005). The tongue-in-cheek play evident in the CD’s title demonstrates the multiple constraints rap artists negotiate. Adding yet another layer of complication to rap performance are market interests, which intensify the pressure to conform to the compulsory scripts ascribed to black masculinity. Put differently, in order to secure its viability (the capacity to generate profit) rap must strike a balance between human expression and commercialism.

A complex occupation3 The commercial rap artist walks a very difficult road. An arbiter of truth, both real and imagined, and a deliverer of potent social critique, commercial rap artists serve as interlocutors for generations of people whose lived experiences sit in the crosshairs of race, gender, and class. The guise of entertainment is a clever scrim obscuring commercial rap as a form of resistance (Flores 1996: 143; Mast 1992: 281, 293). The difficulty in recognizing commercial rap as a form of resistance is dispositive of hip hop working “symbolically in a number of directions at once” (Gray 1995: 402). Rap, serving as a conduit for black masculinity in the public sphere, is “emblematic of the complex social relations and cultural politics” endemic to “self-construction,” “representation,” and self-expression (Gray 1995: 401). Commercially successful black masculinity is cognizant of being on display. For rap artists, mindful of being seen is distinct from expectations of respectability. Rather, being seen aligns perfectly with “commodity capitalism” where anything can be bought and sold in the market (Saddik 2003: 112). Furthermore, advanced capitalism “confuses the boundaries” of “authenticity” and entertainment (Collins 2006; Saddik 2003: 112). Rap takes full advantage of the blurred lines and uses its voice and its presence 3

Badu, Erykah. 2003. “Danger.” Worldwide Underground.



Men or monsters?

73

to dramatize the epistemology of a “soul in revolt.” Black masculinity is a fusion of socio-cultural markers. Race, gender, sex, orientation, and class do more than intersect, they converge in black masculinity. In managing multiple markers, rap shines light on the “tension between [individual] agency and the determinate [institutional] factors that limit agency” (Dowdy 2007: 155). Commercial rap provides a lesson in “reflexivity” that when deployed generates multiple “narratives” engineered to respond to “mobile and shifting enemies” (Rose 1994: 61). The “truth” rap speaks is neither attractive nor “sentimental” rather, rap illustrates the everyday lived experiences of black masculinity as a purgatorial existence caught between de jure freedoms and de facto structural exclusions (Dowdy 2007: 13). Black masculinity is home to purgatorial characters who are able to perform the tenets of the Guy Code, yet because of race and class markers are unable to attain the full promise of patriarchal authority. Despite these limitations and constraints, rap is a formidable “insurrectionary power” and source of a new black aesthetic (Ehrenreich 1989: 94; Ellis 1989). By repurposing the nomenclature of white supremacist discourse, rap transforms the desire and disgust ascribed to the black male body into a potent living record of the generations coming after the VRA. Rap serves as the communal “memory,” the repository of “opinions” and critiques, “interests” and curiosities, “educations” and belief systems (Dowdy 2007: 15; Reinharz 1992). In a very odd turn of events, because rap is a commercial product one does not need credentials to access its data bank. If you want to know what police brutality was like in Compton, sample N.W.A. on iTunes. Rap artists covertly wrestle with the messy business of being human and because their work is obscured by the market it is difficult to accurately decipher what rap is really up to. The suspicion hovering over commercial rap isn’t necessarily blackness; rather, the real trouble with commercial rap may actually rest in its ability to hold a mirror up to contemporary culture (Dowdy 2007: 189). The mirror rap artists hold reflects an unvarnished view of the state of our union. Commercial rap is the report card on our society and, as such, we may not want to inspect our progress report. For instance, we may not want to confront the criminality permeating rap as a commentary on the systemic disenfranchisement of black men from the formal economy (Katznelson 2006). We may not want to critically engage the misogyny rampant in rap as a necessary and defining feature of all masculinities (Crenshaw 1991: 1283; Kimmel 2008: 45, 47). We may not want to thoughtfully pause and consider how the conspicuous consumption of goods and services, glorified in commercial rap, has exploded into the wholesale purchase of identity (Neary 2010: 120). It’s all too easy to castigate commercial rap for what some might call its vulgarity. However, scapegoating commercial rap on the grounds of respectability obviates commercial rap’s value as “a new form of black social critique” (Alridge

74

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

2005: 226). By blending the sacred and the profane, commercial rap comes into view as a “site of cultural contact where tension and dissonance” engenders critical interrogations of individual actions and institutional responses (Isherwood 2000: 79; West 1996: 144). However, because commercial rap is a creature of the global market, its value as a “coping mechanism” for peoples fighting for their right to write their own identity is too often dismissed out of hand (or perhaps out of shame for failing to realize the aspirations of the CRM). Commercial rap attends to “friction points of culture” (West 1996: 147). Rap can and will rub you the wrong way. However, that is its purpose. Though deeply coded by the laws of masculinity and heavily veiled by the guise of entertainment, rap leverages its power and channels its energy into an irresistible set of narratives that attack, mock, cajole, and interrogate the world order. Though gender equity remains a persistent blind spot, rap, through its performance practice, provides a compelling site where masculinity is imagined and contested in unexpected ways. The unacknowledged creativity inherent in rap gestures toward a hidden intellectualism entangled in a dense web of compulsory scripts and sanctioned behaviors. Rap deftly navigates the web and as it does so, rap brings forth “new languages” and gives rise to “new consciousnesses,” thereby expanding the negro’s niche in a contemporary global community (Rose 1994: 99; West 1996: 151). Rap’s aesthetic is arresting because we live in riveting times; old forms of sociality are giving way to new forms of order. Rap works on the cusp of social change and channels the mystique of the black savage into an irresistible reflection of our contemporary world if only we bothered to look.

References Alridge, Derrick. 2005. “From civil rights to hip hop: toward a nexus of ideas.” The Journal of African American History 3 (Summer): 226–52. Anderson, Eric. 2005. In the Game: Gay Athletes and the Cult of Masculinity. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Barthes, Roland and Lionel Duisit. 1975. “An introduction to the structural analysis of narrative.” New Literary History 6(2): 237–72. de B’béri, B. E. and P. Hogarth. 2009. “White America’s construction of black bodies: the case of Ron Artest as a model of covert racial ideology in the NBA’s discourse.” Journal of Intercultural and International Communication 2(2): 89–106. The Beatles. 1968. The Beatles (White Album). Apple. MP3. de Beauvoir, Simone. 2005. “Introduction from The Second Sex.” In Wendy K. Kolmar and Frances Bartkowski, eds, Feminist Theory: A Reader. New York: McGraw-Hill.



Men or monsters?

75

Buescher, Derek and Kent Ono. 1996. “Civilized colonialism: Pocahontas as neocolonial rhetoric.” Women’s Studies in Communication 19: 127–54. Butler, Judith. 1990. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” In Sue-Ellen Case, ed., Performing Feminisms: Feminist Critical Theory. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Collins, Patricia Hill. 2006. “New commodities, new consumers: selling blackness in a global marketplace.” Ethnicities 6: 297–317. Connell, R. W. 1985. “Theorising gender.” Sociology 260–72. —1996. “Politics of changing men.” Australian Humanities Review. December. www.australianhumanitiesreview.org (accessed February 16, 2012). Connell, R. W. and James W. Messerschmidt. 2005. “Hegemonic masculinity: rethinking the concept.” Gender & Society 19(6): 829–59. Craig, Maxine Leeds. 2006. “Race, beauty, and the tangled knot of a guilty pleasure.” Feminist Theory 7(2): 159–77. Crenshaw, Kimberle Williams. 1991. “Mapping the margins: intersectionality, identity politics, and violence against women of color.” Stanford Law Review 43(6): 1241–99. Davis, Miles. 1970. Bitches Brew. Columbia. MP3. Dowdy, Michael. 2007. American Political Poetry in the 21st Century. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. DuBois, W. E. B. 2004. The Souls of Black Folk: 100th Anniversary Edition. Boulder, CO: Paradigm Publishers. Ehrenreich, Barbara. 1989. “Revenge of the Lower Class.” In Barbara Ehrenreich, Fear of Falling, pp. 91–6. New York: Random House. Ellis, Trey. 1989. “The new black aesthetic.” Callaloo 38 (Winter): 233–43. Entman, Robert M. and Andrew Rojecki. 2001. The Black Image in the White Mind: Media and Race in America. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fanon, Franz. 2008. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove Press. Flores, L. A. 1996. “Creating discursive space through a rhetoric of differences: chicana feminists craft a homeland.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 82(2): 142–56. Gray, Herman. 1995. “Black masculinity and visual culture.” Callaloo 18(2): 401–5. Gundle, Stephen. 2008. Glamour: A History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haraway, Donna. 2005. “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century.” In Wendy K. Kolmar and Frances Bartkowski, eds, Feminist Theory: A Reader, pp. 384–94. New York: McGraw-Hill. Harvey, David. 2009. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hecht, M., R. J. Warren, E. June, and J. L. Kriefer. 2005. “The Communication Theory of Identity: Development, Theoretical Perspective, and Future Directions.” In W. B. Gudykunst, ed., Theorizing about Intercultural Communication, pp. 257–78. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. hooks, bell. 2004. We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity. New York: Routledge. —2005. “Feminism: A Transformational Politic.” In Wendy K. Kolmar and

76

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Frances Bartkowski, eds, Feminist Theory: A Reader, pp. 464–9. New York: McGraw-Hill. Hunt, Bryon. 2006. Beyond Beats & Rhymes. Directed by Byron Hunt. Irving, Katrina. 1993. “‘I want your hands on me’: building equivalences through rap music.” Popular Music 12(2): 105–21. Isherwood, Lisa. 2000. “The Sacred Body? Women, Spirituality, and Embodiment.” In Lisa Isherwood and Elizabeth Stuart, eds, Introducing Body Theology, pp. 78–94. Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press. Jay-Z. 1996. “Reasonable Doubt.” Reasonable Doubt. Roc-A-Fella, Priority. CD. —1997. “In My Lifetime.” In My Lifetime, Vol. 1. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD. —1998. “Vol. 2…Hard Knock Life.” Vol. 2…Hard Knock Life. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD. Katznelson, Ira. 2006. “When is affirmative action fair? on grievous harms and public remedies.” Social Research 73(2): 541–68. Khaled, M., March 20, 2013. Interview by Michel Martin. “Tupac Encouraged the Arab Spring.” Tell Me More. National Public Radio. WBEZ. Kimmel, Michael. 2008. Guyland: The Perilous World Where Boys Become Men. New York: HarperCollins. King, Martin Luther. 1991. “Black Power Defined.” In James M. Washington, ed., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King Jr., pp. 303–12. New York: HarperCollins. Lawrence, Charles R., Mari J. Matsuda, Richard Delgado, and Kimberle Williams Crenshaw. 1993. “Introduction.” In Charles R. Lawrence, Mari J. Matsuda, Richard Delgado, and Kimberle Williams Crenshaw, eds, Words that Wound: Critical Race Theory, Assaultive Speech, and the First Amendment, pp. 1–16. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Lemert, Charles and Esme Bhan, eds. 1998. The Voice of Anna Julia Cooper. New York: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Lil Wayne. 2010. “I Am Not a Human Being.” I Am Not a Human Being. Young Money, Cash Money. CD. Lorde, Audre. 2007. Sister Outsider. Berkeley, CA: Crossing Press. Ludacris. 2005. Ludacris Presents...Disturbing Tha Peace. Disturbing Tha Peace, Def Jam. CD. Madhubuti, Haki R., ed. 1993. Why LA Happened: Implications of the ’92 Los Angeles Rebellion. Chicago: Third World Press. Mast, Gerald. 1992. “The Clown Tradition.” In Gerald Mast, The Comic Mind: Comedy and the Movies, pp. 280–318. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nakayama, T. K. and R. L. Krizek. 1995. “Whiteness: a strategic rhetoric.” Quarterly Journal of Speech 81(3): 291–309. Nas. 2008. Untitled. Def Jam, Columbia. CD. Neary, Timothy B. 2010. “Buying the dream: identity, authenticity, and mass communication in black America.” Journal of Urban History 36(1): 116–22. The Notorious B.I.G. 1994. Ready to Die. Bad Boy Records. CD. Novek, E. M. 2005. “‘Heaven, hell, and here’: understanding the impact of incarceration through a prison newspaper.” Critical Studies in Media Communication 22(4): 281–301. N.W.A. 1998. “Fuck Tha Police.” Straight Outta Compton. Ruthless, Priority. CD.



Men or monsters?

77

O’Donohue, John. 2004. Beauty: The Invisible Embrace. New York: Harper Collins. —January 26, 2012. Interview by Krista Tippett. “The Inner Landscape of Beauty.” Pascoe, C. J. 2007. Dude, You’re a Fag. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Reinharz, Shulamit. 1992. Feminist Methods in Social Research. New York: Oxford University Press. Rose, Tricia. 1991. “Fear of a black planet: rap music and black cultural politics in the 1990s.” The Journal of Negro Education 3 (Summer): 276–90. —1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Saddik, A. 2003. “Rap’s unruly body: the postmodern performance of black male identity on the American stage.” The Dram Review 47(4): 110–27. Shelby County v. Holder. 570 U.S. (U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, 2013). Shelley, Percy. n.d. “A Defence of Poetry by Percy Bysshe Shelley.” Poetry Foundation. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/essay/237844 (accessed February 2, 2012). wa Thiong’o, Ngugi. 2009. Something Torn and New. New York: Basic Civitas Books. West, Kanye. 2004a. “All Falls Down.” College Dropout. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD. —2004b. College Dropout. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD. —2005. Late Registration. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD —2007. Graduation. Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam. CD. West, Thomas R. 1996. “Beyond dissensus: exploring the heuristic value of conflict.” Rhetoric Review 15: 142–55. —2002. “From the Safe House to a Praxis of Shelter.” In Thomas R. West, Signs of Struggle: The Rhetorical Politics of Cultural Difference, pp. 91–106. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Woolf, Virginia. 1981. A Room of One’s Own. New York: Harcourt Bruce Jovanovich. Worsley, Shawan. 2010. Audience, Agency and Identity in Black Popular Culture. New York: Routledge.

CHAPTER FIVE

Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls Intellectual property law and the development of hip hop music Richard Schur

Editors’ note The standard account of hip hop’s history tends to emphasize how the early deejay and rapper innovators challenged existing understandings of music and, in turn, produced a form of music that allowed young, urban, and poor people of color to articulate their concerns. While there is much truth to this version of events, it neglects how intellectual property law disputes affected the development of hip hop. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, most notably with the Grand Upright Music v. Warner Brothers (1991) case, hip hop artists found themselves mired in litigation and framed as “copyright outlaws.” Later controversies over radio play, mixtapes, mash-ups, and branding have been profoundly affected by how courts have regulated the content, development, and distribution of hip hop. Drawing on Eduard Peñalver and Sonia Katyal’s conception of the “property outlaw” and his own research from his book Parodies of

80

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Ownership, Richard Schur explores here how hip hop artists become “copyright outlaws” and how this form of “banditry” has become essential not only to the underlying movement culture of hip hop, but also to its critique of American culture writ large. Schur demonstrates how this demand for social recognition is not simply a pose or a lyrical demand; rather it is a challenge to how property rights get distributed. Schur concludes that the shift from “outlaws” to “moguls” can be seen as a partial response to intellectual property’s regulation and constraint of hip hop. The hip hop mogul figure offered a way for artists to reframe what was being labeled as piracy or banditry and become masters of the game itself. ***

Introduction In 1979, Sugar Hill Records released “Rapper’s Delight” and transformed what had been a relatively local form of music into popular music that would find an audience throughout the country (Chang 2005: 132). The song, performed by the Sugarhill Gang, relied on the bass line from Chic’s “Good Times” and borrowed rhymes from Grandmaster Caz (Fricke and Ahearn 2002: 187–9). While rappers had long relied on this extended breakbeat at local parties, “Rapper’s Delight” constituted the first time the practices, which would eventually become known as sampling, had been recorded and distributed. The song became a smash hit, bringing hip hop into the charts for the first time. All however was not well. Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards of Chic sued Sugar Hill Records for infringing on their copyright. Eventually, the parties settled out of court, and Rodgers and Edwards gained ownership rights over the song and royalties (Demers 2006: 92; Vaidhyanathan 2001: 132). This initial lawsuit only foreshadowed how hip hop artists would challenge legal doctrines about intellectual property and the role that many judges, lawyers, and corporate executives will play in shaping the history and development of American hip hop music. The standard account of hip hop’s history tends to emphasize how the early deejay and rapper innovators challenged existing understandings of music and, in turn, produced a form of music that allowed young, urban, and poor people of color to articulate their concerns about the state of their neighborhoods and the country more generally.1 While there is much truth to this version of events, it tends to neglect how the very form they Dan Charnas’s The Big Payback (2010) offers a revisionist account of this narrative by examining the business history of hip hop. His focus, like mine, considers how the structure of 1



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

81

created conflicted with existing intellectual property law doctrines. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, most notably with the Grand Upright Music v. Warner Brothers (1991) case, hip hop artists found themselves mired in litigation. When hip hop remained a local music that generated relatively little revenue, deejays were free to sample as they wished. However, once hip hop became more popular and financially lucrative, the owners of the sampled music—rarely the original artists—wanted a piece of the profits and caused a significant change in how hip hop music could be produced. In this chapter, I seek to explore hip hop’s complicated and ambivalent relationship with U.S. copyright law.2 On the one hand, many artists have positioned themselves as “copyright outlaws” or “copyright altlaws.” Eduardo Peñalver and Sonia Katyal have developed these terms to describe how individuals and groups challenge existing legal norms and seek to create alternative rules about the creation and use of intellectual property law (Peñalver and Katyal 2010: 76–7).3 Especially as courts determined that many sampling practices constituted copyright infringement, hip hop artists and its supporters responded by trying to show hip hop’s underlying aesthetic values, its connection to earlier African American art forms, how sampling allowed and frequently articulated cultural criticisms, and the incoherence of modern copyright law.4 Frequently framing themselves as copyright outlaws, deejays and MCs assumed a revolutionary and/or rebellious pose. They flouted intellectual property law when they used samples to both criticize and praise earlier musical artists and styles.5 Copyright litigation contributed to the dangerous or even criminal image that some hip hop artists began adopting during the late 1980s. Copyright law, however, did not only constitute an avenue or arena for political and racial struggle. The same system that hindered some artists eventually allowed other hip hop stars and moguls to build huge fortunes. Over time, Russell Simmons, Master P, Jay-Z, 50 Cent, and Sean “Diddy” Combs became quite rich through their ownership of record companies and vigorously protecting their own copyrighted material. The hip hop the American music business influenced the very music that was recorded, distributed, played on the radio, and purchased by consumers. 2 This chapter only considers the situation of hip hop in the United States and vis-à-vis American law. As hip hop expands across the globe, sampling practices will likely be affected by how specific jurisdictions apply their copyright laws 3 For a listing of the ethical rules for sampling developed by deejays and producers, see Schloss 2004: 101–34. 4 For examples, see Demers 2006; Lessig 2004; McLeod 2007; Miller 2008; Schumacher 2004; Schur 2009; Vaidhyanathan 2001. 5 Even though this chapter is only concerned with the development of hip hop, the battles over property and property rights within American culture have a much longer history. African Americans have challenged these laws and the definition of property rights for the entire span of American history. For a fuller exploration of this, see Schur 2009 generally. In this chapter, I am only exploring how hip hop constitutes only the most recent chapter in this long struggle.

82

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

mogul, in its various guises, celebrated how some artists and producers mastered the very copyright laws, marketing, and distribution systems that had stymied earlier artists (Charnas 2010; Smith 2003). These hip hop entrepreneurs also deployed branding and trademarked identities to create their own profitable music and merchandise lines. For example, early in his career with N.W.A., Dr. Dre was sued for infringement. In the past decade, Dr. Dre has re-branded himself through Beats headphones and transformed himself into one of the biggest hip hop moguls. Mark Anthony Neal presciently notes that these efforts changed the very nature of popular forms of hip hop music and culture (Neal 2004: 170–1). In contrast to 1970s deejays, such as DJ Kool Herc, Afrika Bambaataa, and Grandmaster Flash, who developed the underlying hip hop aesthetic through their creative appropriation and re-use of existing records (in what would be deemed to be copyright infringement) but received relatively little monetary compensation from their efforts, contemporary artists have learned to manipulate both copyright law and music industry practices to amass considerable wealth and become pop music royalty. This chapter seeks to demonstrate the central role that sampling played in early hip hop, primarily prior to 1991, how court decisions in the early 1990s contributed to the shifting balance of influence among East, West, and the South during the period that followed, and how copyright has continued to affect how hip hop music develops and gets distributed. Although copyright laws, lawyers, and courts have never written or produced a hip hop track, they nonetheless have constituted a key element of the context for hip hop’s growth and popularity. To better understand hip hop and its social meaning, it is essential to explore copyright’s influence on hip hop for both the copyright outlaw and the hip hop mogul are key figures within hip hop.

Sampling in early hip hop While hip hop began in the Bronx, its influences stretch back to Jamaican deejay practices, the soul records of James Brown, and a host of other African American cultural practices (Chang 2005: 21–40; Hebdige 1987: 136–48). Directly drawing on these traditions, the earliest deejays used records to produce a seemingly endless dance mix, emphasizing the bass and drum lines found in the breaks between verses. Grandmaster Flash labeled these parts the “get down” part of the record (Fricke and Ahearn 2002: 58). Before MC-ing and rapping developed into the art forms they have become, the deejay, with his unique knowledge of breaks and his ability to weave them into a seamless whole, was the primary focus of these dance parties. Deejays even developed their local reputations, in part, by the kinds of breaks they employed. DJ Kool Herc was



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

83

known for his eclectic mix of songs, while Afrika Bambaataa gained a reputation for possessing an even wider range of beats (Charnas 2010: 78). In Bambaataa’s “Planet Rock,” he weaves together a Kraftwerk song (“Trans-Europe Express”), a drum machine, and even some George Clinton. The song eventually became the subject of copyright litigation and resulted in an out-of-court settlement between Kraftwerk and Tommy Boy Records, which transferred some ownership rights to Kraftwerk. “Planet Rock” is significant, not simply because of the copyright dispute, but because the song illustrated the breadth of Bambaataa’s sampling and his use of sampled sounds to create his masterpiece. “The Adventures of Grandmaster Flash and the Wheels of Steel” demonstrated Flash’s virtuosity at spinning records and using them to “talk.” Grandmaster Flash’s collage represented a distinct achievement as it testified to his mastery over the turntables. Pretty quickly, a number of samples became ubiquitous within hip hop. Deejays and rappers found endless uses for Chic’s “Good Times.” Other favorites included breaks from “Apache,” “The Funky Drummer,” and “Amen Brother.” Most commonly, these early beats were selected in appreciation of the original artists and songs. In effect, these deejays were providing “shout outs” to these artists and not yet engaging in wholesale revisions of the breakbeats. For example, Evil Dee of Black Moon explains that the song “I Got Cha Opin” is a homage to Barry White, and Money B of Digital Underground describes how their album Sex Packets relied extensively on Parliament/Funkadelic music (Coleman 2007: 68, 179). To create these homages, deejays initially needed the actual records and two turntables to stretch out the breaks for extended dancing and to create the 32-bar structure that would become the standard rap song with three verses and choruses. Later, technology enabled deejays and producers greater control over samples in their efforts to create good beats. These early days of sampling also suggest that hip hop’s main themes and messages had not yet been developed, its political orientation not yet articulated. However, with the advent of early keyboards and drum machines, deejays and producers gained the ability to “sample” these breakbeats. Once digitally recorded on the keyboard, samples could be sped up or slowed down and endlessly “looped” and played over and over again without error. These devices also enabled deejays to sample single notes or sounds and eventually reconfigure these sample notes and sounds into a new break beat. These keyboards, in effect, became mobile studios and democratized musical production in that budding musicians and deejays no longer needed expensive technology to create this form of “collaged” music. Examples of this developing form of sampling include MC Shy D’s “Rapp Will Never Die,” Run DMC’s “Peter Piper,” De La Soul’s “Eye Know,” and Mellow Man Ace’s “Mentirosa.” In these songs (and many others), these artists took notes, melodies, and even single percussion beats and

84

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

transformed them through digital means. For better or worse, the growth of hip hop was linked to these changing patterns of sampling. During the early days of hip hop, these forms of production were frequently “permitted” because copyright owners had not yet taken notice of how their music was being appropriated, especially in smaller and smaller pieces that could be difficult to identify. Moreover, few imagined how this local form of party music would gain an international audience and generate billions of dollars in revenue. As we will see, this will change. As hip hop grew, deejays and MCs discovered that they could use samples to critically comment on the sampled music and produce an interesting tension between the sample and its lyrics. Of course, much sampling continued to offer “shout outs” too. However, the effort to use sampling to deepen the lyrical meaning of rap songs and to create a complex form of layered sounds grew in popularity (Rose 1994: 38–9; Schur 2009: 50–3). In “The Bridge,” Boogie Down Productions (BGD) appropriates Billy Joel’s “It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me” as its primary sample. KRS-One raps in the song about his great rapping skill and how the Bronx can top any other borough when it comes to hip hop. The song’s cry that “the bridge is over” serves to claim his victory over rival rappers, particularly Marley Marl, and that rock music, here symbolized by both the Billy Joel sample and Joel’s album titled The Bridge, is “over” or has been cast aside by the rise of hip hop (Charnas 2010: 178). By referencing Billy Joel’s song and KRS-One’s prodigious abilities, the song also seems to reach out to the white, suburban audiences, which traditionally purchased Joel’s music. In “Gangster of Love,” the Geto Boys re-worked the Steve Miller Band song “The Joker.” Their version, however, featured harder lyrics and transformed this 1970s rock ballad into something that could both reflect and comment on the changes occurring in urban America. Moreover, the song provided the occasion, following Boogie Down Productions, to take back popular music from the increasingly saccharine sounds of FM radio. A Tribe Called Quest engaged in a similar appropriation of Lou Reed’s “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” with their song “Can I Kick It?” While Reed’s song describes black urban spaces, with prostitutes and drug dealers, as zones of adventure for white, middle-class kids, A Tribe Called Quest seeks to defend these neighborhoods from Reed, white suburbanites, and dominant media imagery. Probably, the high point of this kind of re-appropriation is 2 Live Crew’s re-working of Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman.” In their characteristic style, Luther Campbell and company added a series of raunchy lyrics to re-cast Orbison’s song. 2 Live Crew, from Miami, was known for creating popular dance songs, which featured heavy bass lines, and for their frequent and innovative use of slang and vulgarity. Their lyrics regularly referenced sexual activity and engaged in misogynistic rants (Sarig 2007: 20). Their version of “Oh, Pretty Woman” illustrated both elements of their signature style. Before getting sued for copyright infringement (as discussed in the



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

85

following section), the group had to defend itself against a charge of obscenity due to their lyrics. With the aid of Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates, a Florida court held that 2 Live Crew’s music was not obscene (Gates 1990). The publicity from these lawsuits, along with the use of familiar melodies, helped hip hop reach a broader audience and served to verify the transgressive or rebellious nature of hip hop. Not all artists relied on single or even recognizable samples in their work. Public Enemy became known for its outspoken lyrics and its incredibly dense production style. With album titles, like It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Fear of a Black Planet, and songs such as “Burn Hollywood Burn,” “911 is a Joke,” and “When I Get to Arizona,” Public Enemy helped create and popularize a style for hip hop in which rappers overtly challenged the racism in American society and culture. The group’s deejays, the Bomb Squad featuring Hank Shocklee, matched Chuck D’s lyrical intensity with their own densely layered beats. In a single album, they would use over 100 samples, borrowing and blending together beats, melodies, famous speeches, and street sounds (Dery 2004: 414). While the deejay had always played a foundational role in hip hop culture, Public Enemy helped deejays became sonic artists and transformed the sound of hip hop. The deejay could no longer simply find good hooks and scratch. Rather, following the logic of sampling and the ethos of the copyright outlaw, deejays needed to dig deeper than ever before to construct beats and layer sound upon sound. This technical mastery of the studio, however, was not mere play. For Public Enemy and the many artists they influenced, each sample conveyed a meaning. Their use of famous speeches helped them articulate their politics and make overt connection to the protest tradition within African American culture. Public Enemy’s deployment of police sirens and other street sounds in the music emphasized that their critique followed from their personal experiences and those of their urban audience. The recordings from talk radio in a number of their songs allowed them to respond to the dominant culture’s critique of them and their music. Their relative disregard of copyright law allowed Public Enemy to develop a sound and express a message that symbolized hip hop’s challenge to American music and American culture.

Significant court decisions and their effects The growing popularity of hip hop and its increased sales led to an increasing number of conflicts regarding the use of samples throughout the 1980s (Schumacher 2004).6 While a number of rappers decided to See Schumacher (2004) for an overview of these conflicts.

6

86

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

settle disputes, courts had not yet determined the legal rules for sampling (Coleman 2007: 153). But even though courts had not yet made any pronouncements, deejays and rappers had begun to develop their ethical code about sampling. Deejays wanted recognition for their hard work of “diggin’ in the crates” to find samples and an acknowledgment of their creativity in re-fashioning those breaks into their own tracks. The unwritten rule was that deejays could not “bite” or steal another deejay’s samples. Implicit in this ethos was that simply playing or looping a single break did not demonstrate a deejay’s mastery of the studio or studio musicians (Schloss 2004: 101–33). Deejays, especially in the early days, claimed that their ear for and manipulation of music was superior to that of traditional musicians as they, could hear things the “original” musicians and producer did not, and they could find hidden musical gems that had gotten buried in the original records. Although few deejays relied on this language, they had become copyright outlaws or altlaws and had developed an alternative system for allocating ownership rights over musical creativity. The music itself constituted a political challenge to the distribution of cultural ownership rights, and, like earlier generations of African Americans, they sought to use their artistic talent to contest racial stereotypes about genius and social worth. Unfortunately, courts did not recognize this artistry or the underlying political messages about property rights. Courts initiated a profound change in the development of hip hop, including a reordering of the relative roles of deejays, rappers, and producers. The first courts did not enter the debates until 1991.7 In Grand Upright Music v. Warner Brothers (1991), Gilbert O’Sullivan sued Biz Markie for his song “Alone Again” and its sample of his music. Biz Markie’s attorneys argued that sampling ought not to constitute infringement because it had become fairly ubiquitous in hip hop music during the 1980s. The court, however, refused to legitimate what had become standard practice. Rather, Judge Duffy held that sampling constituted copyright infringement (Grand Upright Music 1991: 185). In Campbell v. Acuff-Rose (1994), the United States Supreme Court permitted 2 Live Crew to sample Orbison’s song “Oh, Pretty Woman,” but only because it was a parody (Campbell v. Acuff-Rose 1994: 581). While 2 Live Crew won their case, the actual decision differentiated between satire and parody. Offering mere satire or social commentary, the court decided, was not enough to protect artists from copyright infringement suits. As a result, the court implicitly endorsed the landmark 1991 decision. While the district court in Campbell v. Acuff-Rose actually entered its decision first, that decision was appealed and was not fully resolved until much later. As a result, the Biz Markie litigation had a deeper initial impact, chilling the use of samples in hip hop recordings. For an overview of sampling cases that settled out of court during the late 1980s, see Demers 2006: 93. 7



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

87

Further decisions such as Boyd Jarvis vs. A&M Records (1993), Newton v. Diamond (2003), Parks vs. LaFace Records (2003), and Bridgeport v. Dimension Films (2005) have largely upheld the principle that almost all samples must be cleared.8 The shift in the legal terrain did not go unremarked or unnoticed by rappers and deejays. In songs, such as Ice Cube’s “Jackin for Beats” and Public Enemy’s “Caught, Can We Get a Witness,” artists lamented how this legal change affected their music. Ice Cube and Chuck D identified the hypocrisy in how copyright law gets applied to hip hop and wondered how these recent legal decisions will affect hip hop music and culture. Hank Shocklee also criticized the musicians who have initiated copyright infringement lawsuits to protect their work: “If they’re bothered that I use their riff, then those guys are no longer musicians . . . They’re now lawyers and accountants trying to keep track of every little sound they’ve created” (Dery 2004: 419). Illustrative of how lawyers and accountants got more involved in hip hop music, Biz Markie explains that one of his favorite songs, “Cool V’s Tribute to Scratching,” never got released because the record company could never clear the Michael Jackson samples upon which the song was based (Coleman 2007: 51). Digable Planets encountered similar difficulties and had to re-work “Jimmie Diggin Cats” and “Escapism (Gettin’ Free)” before the record company would distribute them (Coleman 2007: 172). Many artists, such as The Beatles, Prince, and Led Zeppelin, simply refused to permit any samples (Demers 2006: 117; Vaidhyanathan 2001: 143). These sampling decisions initiated a wave of legal and cultural criticism defending hip hop sampling. For example, Thomas Schumacher argued that sampling challenges copyright law and restricts the free speech of hip hop artists (Schumacher 2004: 453–4). Siva Vaidhyanathan asserted that “Sampling is a transformation: using an expression as an idea; using what was once melody as a beat, an element of rhythm. Sampling is not theft. It’s recycling” (Vaidhyanathan 2001: 145). Others, such as Kembrew McLeod and Joanna Demers, warned that this development of copyright law could lead to the “silenc[ing] and deaden[ing] of our future musical culture” (Demers 2006: 146). Daphne Keller pointed out that the “law, by creating a background regime of absolute entitlements for copyright holders, creates a very bad bargaining situation for the well-meaning deejay

As copyright law has developed, it has provided a relatively simple, efficient, and inexpensive way for artists to “cover” other artists’ songs. There is a clear statutory scheme, outlining how much the copyright holder must be paid. This system does not require the second artist to get the copyright holder’s specific permission. This has meant that it is frequently easier and cheaper to “cover” an entire song than purchase the rights to sample a brief portion. It has also led to the practice within hip hop of re-performing a song and then sampling it because this is a much cheaper way of purchasing rights to a song (Demers 2006: 92). 8

88

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

who actually tries to comply with the law and clear her samples” (Keller 2008: 144). Ironically, hip hop contributed to the growth of an entire industry of copyright holding companies who troll the internet and newly released music, looking for uncleared samples, which can be the basis for copyright infringement lawsuits. This litigation, like that initiated by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) during the late 1990s, has helped renew music as a key site for negotiating cultural politics in the battles among musicians, audiences, and corporate America for control over popular culture. Peñalver and Katyal’s concept of property outlaws helps explain both how entrenched economic interests have resisted the innovative musical production developed by hip hop and the generally romantic embrace of these copyright outlaws as folk heroes who are challenging the injustices of the music industry and copyright law. Regardless of the court’s general hostility to sampling and scholars’ efforts to defend the practice, hip hop artists learned and responded to this changed legal terrain in a number of significant ways that changed the course of hip hop. Deejays, producers, and rappers changed their sampling practices. By 1992 and 1993, they could no longer rely on extended samples as the basis for their songs because copyright owners had begun campaigns to vigilantly protect their catalogue rights and those same copyright owners knew that they had a monopoly on the sampled material and could ask whatever price they wanted. Furthermore, the record companies that distributed hip hop refused to take on the risks associated with unlicensed samples, making artists and producers prove that their songs did not have uncleared samples. Ironically, this legal change took place at the very moment when the battle between East Coast and West Coast forms of hip hop reached its height. While many East Coast artists, such as Public Enemy, KRS-One, A Tribe Called Quest, and De La Soul relied extensively on sampling, West Coast artists, especially those associated with Death Row Records and gangsta rap, had developed a sound that relied more on live instrumentation, including recording covers of songs, and less on samples.9 Although it is not the only reason, the West Coast sound gained popularity, in part, because many East Coast artists, who had helped create the national audience for hip hop, found themselves mired in copyright litigation and needing to develop new strategies for writing, composing, and recording their songs. Other artists continued to use sampling but engaged in “chopping,” defined by Joseph Schloss as “the practice of dividing a long sample into smaller This is not to suggest that West Coast artists, especially Dr. Dre, did not sample. Rather, they sampled less frequently than some of the East Coast counterparts and “chopped” up the songs more finely making it more difficult to find the samples. Also, and perhaps more significantly, it was not until Bridgeport v. Dimension Films, involving N.W.A. among others, that courts laid down a clear ruling that sampling even a few notes could constitute copyright infringement. See also Weingarten 2010: 62, 70. 9



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

89

pieces and then rearranging those pieces in a different order to create a new melody” (Schloss 2004: 151; Weingarten 2010: 27). This strategy relied on a new skill set to evade detection for copyright infringement and further displaced earlier deejay and production styles. The shift away from sampling also necessitated new strategies to connect with and build its growing white and/or suburban audiences. Sampling wellknown songs provided one way, either by design or by accident, to blend African American vernacular speech and complex rhythmic structures into a format that was both recognizable for a wide audience and unique enough to be intriguing.10 Many early hip hop tracks relied on familiar samples that were fairly easy to recognize. The copyright litigation of the late 1980s and early 1990s interrupted that formula. The burgeoning West Coast sound combined with its embrace of the dangerous and violent imagery associated with the War on Drugs and gangs offered a new entry point for audiences.11 For many young people of color in cities, West Coast lyrics reflected how the War on Drugs had reshaped their communities and articulated many of their own feelings about these changes. Message rap, with its call for social revolution based on the philosophies of Martin Luther King and/or Malcolm X, seemed too idealistic to match the devastation experienced by Northern cities and all too frequently their messages got shifted into a call to arms by gangstas and drug dealers. For white suburban audiences, these lyrics endorsed long-standing racial stereotypes and helped solidify hip hop as a dangerous form of music that challenged social and cultural conventions. Gangsta lyrics, in effect, also built on hip hop’s illicit connotations that began with sampling controversies and 2 Live Crew’s obscenity trial. Court decisions holding that sampling constituted copyright infringement affected hip hop in other ways as well. As Joanna Demers details, these decisions led to the distribution of pre-cleared samples. George Clinton and Parliament released a number of albums with samples that only required royalty payments after the hip hop tracks were sold (Demers 2006: 122). Both major labels and hip hop labels engaged in similar efforts to aid hip hop performers (Charnas 2010: 26; Weingarten 2010: 22–3). These sample compilations, however, were viewed by deejays and producers as “shortcuts” and initiated a discourse that artists who relied on those samples had not “put in the work” and, as a result, lacked credibility or authenticity (Schloss 2004: 122). In other words, not all sampling was the same. Hip hop purists “kept it real” by engaging in sampling practices— whether cleared or not—that originated in the early days of hip hop. Early hits such as Run DMC’s “Walk This Way” and Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” relied precisely on this fusion of hard rock and rap to expand hip hop’s audience (Charnas 2010: 162, 229). 11 Eventually, the gangsta sound lost its dominant position within hip hop as Southern hip hop eventually eclipsed it with its emphasis on funky beats and lyrics. 10

90

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

The Roots, who generally do not sample, have felt compelled to defend themselves as authentic hip hop because they play instruments patterned after frequently sampled beats rather than simply reproducing them via studio technology (Marshall 2006: 878). Although other indices of hip hop authenticity have developed as well, copyright’s influence on how deejays and producers operate has contributed to the birth of the very rhetoric that differentiates between the popular forms of hip hop that dominate MTV or Vibe and the growth of the “underground” in which the “true spirit” of hip hop is maintained, at least rhetorically.12 In many ways, copyright laws reduced the role of deejays, who had been the cornerstones of early hip hop culture and elevated the role of MCs and producers. The increased cost of sampling, coupled with the emphasis on conspicuous consumption in hip hop, has enabled established and wealthy artists to re-cast the practice as an illustration of their wealth and power. For example, Joanna Demers notes that Puff Daddy paid over a million dollars to sample material from Led Zeppelin and The Police. She argues that “sampling had turned into a highly expensive operation, and ‘ghetto-fabulous’ musicians sampled white music as a method of displaying financial wealth” (Demers 2006: 90). Other illustrations of potential instances of sampling as bling might include Tupac’s “Changes,” Kanye West’s “Gold Digger,” or Jay-Z’s “Holy Grail.” In each of these cases, the artists do re-vision the sampled material and give it a new meaning, following hip hop’s ethics about sampling and differentiating between sampling and “biting” (or theft). However, these songs also clearly display the artist’s ability to employ samples not available to less successful artists.13 These assertions of wealth and de facto ownership rights contribute to the rhetoric and image of hip hop moguls, who literally own their own world. While sampling is not the only or even the primary influence in shaping the hip hop mogul paradigm, it does suggest how the sampling controversies taught hip hop acts the clear need to master and dominate the recording industry and its practices. African American musicians have long understood the pervasive inequalities in the recording industry (Kelley 2002: 23). Even if Kanye, Jay-Z, and Sean Combs possess the wealth to purchase licenses to sample from white artists, that very act reinforces the tenuous position in which hip hop remains in relation to copyright law.

Marcyliena Morgan defines the “underground” as a space of freedom in which African Americans can “operate clandestinely while controlling information.” It “is a space where truths can be told and where people can remove their veil to expose their spirits and thoughts without fear for their life” (Morgan 2009: 16). Sampling and being a copyright outlaw are ways to speak the truth and gain ownership over one’s music. The rhetoric of the underground, as a result, appears to be connected to the pose of the copyright outlaw. 13 They also help link these artists to the founding moments of hip hop, when DJ Kool Herc, Afrika Bambaataa, and Grandmaster Flash spun a blend of popular and obscure records. 12



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

91

The business: Radio play, mixtapes, and mash-ups For much of its history, the Hip Hop Nation, especially young urban youth of color, relied on alternative forms of music distribution. For example, DMC (of Run DMC) relates how he purchased the tape “Cold Crush 4 Versus the Fantastic 5 at Harlem World” from someone at school, probably in the late 1970s or early 1980s (Fricke and Ahearn 2002: 257). Others report purchasing tapes out of people’s car trunks. Eventually, the tape and mixtape business became the province of independent mom and pop record stores. These stores could respond to local taste, which has been crucial to development of various regional sounds in hip hop, and helped deejays and rappers distribute much more quickly than the major labels. Tricia Rose also argues that shifts in technology allowed musicians and bootleggers cheap and easy ways to sell music both on street corners and in record shops (Rose 1994: 7). This street-level activity helped to pioneer the mixtape market, which helped numerous acts, perhaps most notably 50 Cent, find an audience before they released their first recordings on a major label.14 These alternative forms of music distribution, I argue, constitute another instance of copyright outlaw behavior as hip hop culture developed its own system for marketing and selling music and challenged existing legal and institutional structures. When hip hop emerged in the 1980s, the music industry tended to discount its popularity and its sales largely because the existing model for tracking the sale of units (e.g. records, tapes, and CDs) relied heavily on what a particular magazine’s network of music stores reported and what songs major radio stations played. In 1991, Billboard magazine shifted from the older and idiosyncratic reporting system to one, SoundScan, that used actual sales based on bar code scans at the cash register.15 The recording industry was shocked to learn that N.W.A. Efil4zaggin had sold the second most records during the first week of this new system (Chang 2005: 416). Even with SoundScan, the music charts rarely accurately tracked music sales and popularity in urban neighborhoods serviced by these independent stores. The result has been that some hip hop artists have moved away from the major labels because they don’t see the system as benefiting them or working to their advantage as the measurements for success seem to work against them. While it is pretty common knowledge that tapes and mixtapes played a significant role in East Coast hip hop, Ali Neff mentions that self-released mixtapes were important for local hip hop scenes in the Mississippi Delta (Neff 2009: 112). 15 The use of SoundScan also helped the industry and the Hip Hop Nation realize the extent to which white, suburban audiences were purchasing hip hop music. This too has affected the music as some record companies sought to market the kind of acts—frequently ones with violent and misogynistic lyrics—that the white, suburban audience preferred. 14

92

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

The emphasis on underground distribution also allowed artists to convey messages as political or obscene as they wished. Jeffrey Ogbar observes that record companies were not interested “in promoting radical or progressive social commentary.” He further notes that artists, such as dead prez, the Coup, KRS-One, and Spearhead, found it difficult to enter into recording contracts with major labels (Ogbar 2007: 172). Immortal Technique has frequently rapped about the limiting effects of the major studios, who want to control the images and the lyrics in hip hop albums. He went so far as to describe many hip hop artists as puppets in his song “Freedom of Speech.” Even more popular artists, such as Mos Def, have encountered difficulties when releasing songs with critical messages about the industry. Moreover, because of concerns about lyrics (stoked by the success of 2 Live Crew and Ice-T’s Body Count) many hip hop songs could not be played on the radio. While this did affect the sales of many artists, others such as N.W.A., Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg still managed to go gold and/or platinum (Bradley and Du Bois 2010: xxxviii). However, it is not simply the recording industry that has interfered in the distribution of hip hop music; the Federal Communications Commission has also revised its rules about radio ownership and playlists to limit hip hop’s access to the public. In the 1980s, hip hop had made some in-roads in major radio markets. According to Nelson George, KISS-FM in New York and KDAY-AM in Los Angeles featured hip hop programs developed in Miami, Chicago, Houston, and in other places. These shows were local affairs, relying on the particular tastes of that city. This situation worked fine as long as media ownership was not concentrated in the hands of a few companies. Things changed in 1996 with the major Telecommunications Act of that year. Jeff Chang and Akilah Folami show how the 1996 Telecommunications Act enabled a handful of media conglomerates to purchase numerous stations in many markets and cancel local shows (Chang 2005: 440–3; Folami 2009: 220–1). Moreover, these conglomerates have increasingly created uniform playlists that allow local deejays little flexibility to incorporate local musical taste. Such shifts in the business environment have rarely been adopted to benefit historically marginalized groups. Rather, these changes have aided a few companies to dominate the music business and, in turn, control the kind of music that gets played, distributed, and sold. Again, these business practices are not strictly “copyright” issues but they emerge from the monopolistic power copyright offers. Furthermore, any efforts to challenge these marketing and distribution practices can place artists in a perilous position. Realizing the stacked nature of this game, artists, like Jay-Z, understand the need to turn the entire game upside down in order to really own their creative output and the revenue it generates. All these factors led to the popularity of the mixtape as a crucial means for artists, including T. I., 50 Cent, Jay-Z, and Sean “Diddy” Combs, to



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

93

find an audience and for established artists to build excitement about new releases (Sinnreich 2010: 2). These tapes brought together the best of these new songs and, as a result, helped fans learn of new artists before they hit the radio, MTV, or iTunes. Conrad Muhammad argues that mixtapes offered four benefits to hip hop and the Hip Hop Nation: 1 The mixtape . . . gave the smaller community based stores a lifeline

and even a comparative advantage over their larger competitors. 2 The mixtape phenomenon exposed that many music consumers were not satisfied with the music industry’s traditional album release schedule and format. 3 The mixtape allowed a consumer to get quality and variety all in one, and the best new music first. 4 The rap mixtape—for nearly 15 years—was the cost-effective way for an artist to build a following. (Muhammad 2010) The mixtape also offered a certain authenticity to those who released music in that format because the songs could not be found at Walmart, Amazon. com, or iTunes. Purchasing mixtapes required a certain amount of insider knowledge and allowed the Hip Hop Nation greater access to the music than “official” music stores. Following the logic of the copyright outlaw, the mixtape seemed to occupy a liminal space between the slick hype of major record companies and the small-time, self-promoted artist. So, the mixtape helped romanticize both the genius of hip hop performers and the music’s rebellious pose. Of course, this rhetoric omits a key piece of the story: many major labels paid thousands of dollars for songs to appear on these mixtapes (Sinnreich 2010: 2). Moreover, record “labels began aiding and abetting mixtape D.J.’s, sending them separate digital tracks of vocals and beats from songs so they could be easily remixed” (Shapiro 2007). Shapiro also argues that “Mixtape D.J.’s came to be seen as the first tier of promotions for hip hop artists, a stepping stone to radio play” (Shapiro 2007). Despite their popularity with customers and the increasing reliance of the recording industry on them to market performers, mixtapes frequently violated copyright law. While some of these collections possessed the necessary licenses to copy and distribute the songs, many mixtapes did not. Moreover, it was common to find remixes of songs that relied on uncleared samples. In June 2005, the police raided a store in New York and confiscated their mixtapes as evidence in a copyright and trademark infringement case (Sylvester 2005). Georgia law enforcement officials, in conjunction with the Recording Industry Association of America, raided an Atlanta mixtape studio and production facility in January 2007 (Shapiro 2007; Sinnreich 2010: 2). The result has

94

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

been that mixtapes still abound, but distributors have become much more careful about what they include. In addition, mixtapes have lost some of their authentic feel, even as they continue to be fairly ubiquitous, as they are more clearly being promoted and approved by major labels. With the popularity of music websites, unknown and developing artists now can release their own tracks without needing the network offered by mixtapes and local record stores. Mash-ups, although not limited to one musical form or genre, is another venue in which copyright law has influenced the very nature of hip hop. While many hip hop deejays have explored the possibility of mash-ups, copyright licensing issues have impeded these mash-ups from gaining wider distribution and popularity. Many artists and labels simply refuse to provide licenses for mash-ups. Other labels might but set such high prices that most up-andcoming deejays cannot afford to pay the fees, effectively limiting the practice (Sinnreich 2010: 135). Because mash-ups require that the audience recognizes the original, recent deejay strategies of hiding samples through chopping will not work in this context (Sinnreich 2010: 132). Even though mash-ups do gain popularity in clubs and on mixtapes, they do not have access to the same kind of distribution as major label releases, nor are they played on the radio. Despite this antagonistic legal terrain, DJ Danger Mouse gained notoriety and has developed a significant career, which straddles the line between hip hop and pop. In 2003, DJ Danger Mouse released a mash-up of The Beatles’ White Album and Jay-Z’s Black Album. By trading on the popularity of Jay-Z and his audacity of brazenly sampling The Beatles, who had actively resisted all sampling attempts, the Grey Album found both a ready audience and the attention of EMI, the copyright owner of The Beatles’ music. EMI sent DJ Danger Mouse a cease-and-desist letter to stop selling and/or sharing the album. Copyright activists, then, led a mass downloading event, known as “Grey Tuesday,” when millions of people downloaded the album before it needed to be removed from music-sharing sites (Demers 2006: 140). For DJ Danger Mouse, the copyright conflict worked to increase his popularity and allowed him to find an audience for his later collaborations with Gemini and Cee Lo. In this regard, DJ Danger Mouse is the exception that proves the rule: relatively few deejays who produce mash-ups gain a wide audience because copyright law is generally hostile to that form of creativity. As a result, mash-ups and mixtapes remain a relatively small part of the business of hip hop, albeit very important and influential ones.

Conclusion This chapter has argued that copyright law has played an enormous role in shaping hip hop culture. Acknowledging this constraining role requires



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

95

scholars, musicians, and fans to rethink our understanding of hip hop. These conflicts over copyright have affected the relative role of deejays and MCs, what music has been released, how hip hop tracks get created, the career trajectories of artists and movements, the royalties earned by artists, the public perception of hip hop, and how hip hop has been distributed. Hip hop artists have learned to deal with the harsh realities of the music business and have had to quickly re-frame their game to master this hostile legal and business environment.16 Starting out as copyright outlaws, some hip hop artists have become hip hop moguls as they have sought to emerge victorious in these battles for ownership over the music and hip hop culture. Others have emphasized their connection to the roots and embraced the “underground” as the true inheritors of the hip hop spirit. In a sense, copyright law has helped create the paradoxical outlaw-mogul binary, which is at the heart of contemporary hip hop. Artists increasingly position themselves as both rebels and masters of the music industry. These sometimes contradictory desires help produce the creative tension essential for hip hop to thrive and the irony of millionaire MCs who pose as outsider rebels. Whether framed as outlaws, moguls, or both, the development of hip hop and hip hop artistry has been inextricably linked to the growth of intellectual property law.

References Alim, Samy. 2006. Roc the Mic Right: The Language of Hip Hop Culture. New York: Routledge. Bradley, Adam and Andrew Du Bois. 2010. “Introduction.” In Adam Bradley and Andrew Du Bois, eds, Anthology of Rap, pp. xxix–xlvii. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Bridgeport v. Dimension Films. 2005. 410 F. 3d 792 (6th Cir.). Bynoe, Yvonne. 2004. Stand and Deliver: Political Activism, Leadership, and Hip Hop Culture. Brooklyn, NY: Soft Skull. Campbell v. Acuff-Rose. 1994. 510 U.S. 569. Chang, Jeff. 2005. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: St. Martin’s. Charnas, Dan. 2010. The Big Payback: The History of the Business of Hip-Hop. New York: Penguin.

One critic has pointed out the irony that while some hip hop stars have mastered the music and come to own their music and much more, “the role of ownership and control must extend beyond artist to the general Black community.” She continues: “Owning a chain of successful record stores, a venue that books Black artists, or a state of the art recording studio are more attainable goals for the average Black young person than making a platinum album” (Bynoe 2004: 170–1). 16

96

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Coleman, Brian. 2007. Check the Technique: Liner Notes for Hip-Hop Junkies. New York: Villard. Demers, Joanna. 2006. Steal This Music: How Intellectual Property Law Affects Musical Creativity. Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press. Dery, Mark. 2004. “Public Enemy Confrontation.” In Murray Forman and Mark Anthony Neal, eds, That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader, pp. 407–20. New York: Routledge. Folami, Akilah. 2009. “The Telecommunications Act of 1996 and the Overdevelopment of Gangsta Rap.” In Lovalerie King and Richard Schur, eds, African American Culture and Legal Discourse, pp. 209–32. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Fricke, Jim and Charlie Ahearn. 2002. Yes Yes Y’all: The Experience Music Project’s Oral History of Hip Hop’s First Decade. New York: Da Capo. Gates, Henry Louis. June 19, 1990. “2 Live Crew Decoded: Rap Music Group’s Use of Street Language in Context of Afro-American Cultural Heritage Analyzed.” New York Times. George, Nelson. 1998. Hip Hop America. New York: Penguin. Grand Upright Music v. Warner Brothers. 1991. 780 F. Supp. 182 (S.D.N.Y.). Hebdige, Dick. 1987. Cut ’N’ Mix: Culture, Identity and Caribbean Music. New York: Routledge. Jay-Z. 2010. Decoded. New York: Spiegel & Grau. Keller, Daphne. 2008. “The Musician as Thief: Digital Culture and Copyright Law.” In Paul D. Miller, ed., Sound Unbound: Sampling Digital Music and Culture, pp. 134–50. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kelley, Norman. 2002. “Notes on the Political Economy of Black Music.” In Norman Kelley, ed., Rhythm and Business: The Political Economy of Black Music, pp. 6–23. New York: Akashic. Lessig, Lawrence. 2004. Free Culture: How Big Media Uses Technology and the Law to Lock Down Culture and Control Creativity. New York: Penguin. Marshall, Wayne. 2006. “Giving up hip-hop’s firstborn: a quest for the real after the death of sampling.” Callaloo 29(3): 868–92. McLeod, Kembrew. 2007. Freedom of Expression: Overzealous Copyright Bozos and Other Enemies of Creativity (rev. edn). New York: Doubleday. Miller, Paul D. 2008. “In Through the Out Door: Sampling and the Creative Act.” In Paul D. Miller, ed., Sound Unbound: Sampling Digital Music and Culture, pp. 5–20. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Morgan, Marcyliena. 2009. The Real Hiphop: Battling for Knowledge, Power, and Respect in the LA Underground. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Muhammad, Cedric. September 14, 2010. “The MixTape: The End of an Era?” Allhip hop.com. http://www.allhiphop.com/stories/editorial/ archive/2010/09/14/22386152.aspx (accessed December 21, 2013). Neal, Mark Anthony. 2004. “Up from hustling: power, plantations, and the hip-hop mogul.” Socialism and Democracy 18(2): 157–82. Neff, Ali Colleen. 2009. Let the World Listen Right: The Mississippi Delta Hip-Hop Story. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi. Ogbar, Jeffrey. 2007. Hip-Hop Revolution: The Culture and Politics of Rap. Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas. Peñalver, Eduardo and Sonia Katyal. 2010. Property Outlaws: How Squatters,



Copyright outlaws and hip hop moguls

97

Pirates, and Protesters Improve the Law of Ownership. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Ripani, Richard. 2006. The New Blue Music: Changes in Rhythm & Blues, 1950–1999. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi. Rose, Tricia. 1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. Sarig, Roni. 2007. Third Coast: Outkast, Timbaland, and How Hip-Hop Became a Southern Thing. Cambridge, MA: Da Capo. Schloss, Joseph. 2004. Making Beats: The Art of Sample-Based Hip Hop. Middletown, OH: Wesleyan University Press. Schumacher, Thomas. 2004. “‘This is a Sampling Sport’: Digital Sampling, Rap Music, and the Law in Cultural Production.” In Murray Forman and Mark Anthony Neal, eds, That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader, pp. 443–58. New York: Routledge. Schur, Richard. 2009. Parodies of Ownership: Hip-Hop Aesthetics and Intellectual Property Law. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Shapiro, Samantha. February 18, 2007. “Hip-Hop Outlaw (Industry Version).” New York Times. Shusterman, Richard. 2000. Pragmatist Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art. New York: Rowan & Littlefield. Sinnreich, Adam. 2010. Mashed Up: Music, Technology & the Rise of Configurable Culture. Amherst, MA: University of Massachusetts Press. Smith, Christopher Holmes. 2003. “‘I don’t like to dream about getting paid’: representations of social mobility and the emergence of the hip-hop mogul.” Social Text 21(4): 69–97. Sylvester, Nick. June 14, 2005. “The Untold Story of Mondo Kim’s Raid.” Village Voice. Vaidhyanathan, Siva. 2001. Copyrights and Copywrongs: The Rise of Intellectual Property and How It Threatens Creativity. New York: New York University Press. Weingarten, Christopher. 2010. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. New York: Continuum.

CHAPTER SIX

Whirl trade The peculiar image of hip hop in the global economies Fahamu Pecou

Editors’ note As we have outlined in Chapter 1, hip hop culture emerged in the late 1970s as a critical response to mounting social, economic, educational, and cultural disparities which plagued black communities in the civil rights era. By the late 1980s, hip hop’s critique of mainstream American culture became the soundtrack for a budding socio-political revolution—and, as we argue—moved the development of hip hop into a social creation and institutionalization phase. Artists like Public Enemy and KRS­1 used rap music to empower poor and disadvantaged youth with messages of pride, cultural history, and a glimpse at new income models through hip hop culture. Ultimately, this revolutionary spirit threatened to disrupt political, social, and economic interest. In this chapter, Fahamu Pecou argues that hip hop’s development prompted a backlash of sorts: an aggressive corporate investment in shaping its movement culture. Today’s hip hop, according to Pecou, is rife with inconsistencies and double standards as the music is precariously intertwined with corporate interest and a global politics that reflects traditional racist values. In “Whirl Trade,” he discusses the often-conflicting relationship between hip hop and its corporate partners. In a sense,

100

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

then, the chapter points to the opposite sides of the same coin—and is a nice counterbalance to Joy Boggs’ “Men or Monsters?” Pecou’s chapter considers the contradictions of representations of black men and women in hip hop and how the scopic regime in contemporary and popular rap music influences a new form of racism. Pecou calls for a careful examination and reading of hip hop visual culture as a site where many of these distorted and controlling images are hewn. Pecou’s work is compelling in the context of this volume because it highlights the often-formidable forces arrayed against our image of hip hop as an organic globalizer. He contends that “the whirl trade ultimately works to repress resistance to oppressive regimes through capitalist control and intervention.” Hip hop thus at times finds itself paradoxically seeking to critique the strictures of a capitalist economy at the very same time it is part of it. We take this to be the essence of the whirl trade, and as Pecou explains, his experience in South Africa “awakened me to my own deepseated contradictions about my identity as a black man.” Hip hop’s attempt to build a deeper understanding and awareness that connects communities across spaces runs up against a flat, stereotypical image portrayed by the corporate medium of which hip hop is part. *** You might not believe me if I told you that there is a plot to sow seeds of self-destruction in the minds of the unsuspecting masses using rap music. You might scoff at the idea that a far-reaching oligarchy is using hip hop culture to prevent the rising numbers of poor and disenfranchised people around the world from becoming self-aware. You might say that I was fishing for a conspiracy. You might say I am out of touch or jaded. Or maybe you would say that I am becoming one of those cane-waving old fogies yelling at the teenagers with their loud music and sagging pants. You might say these things, or you can choose to read on.

Not nigg(ER)…its nigg(AH) On February 14, 2009, I had dinner in Cape Town’s Table Bay neighborhood with several friends. My group included three friends who were born and raised in Cape Town and another friend from Detroit. Over dinner, the five of us discussed issues of race and racism in South Africa and the troubled history of racial and ethnic identities. My three South African friends, who would all be considered black in the United States, are categorized as “colored” in South Africa due to their mixed ethnicities. After dinner, we headed to the car. My friend from Detroit and I were approached



Whirl trade

101

by a dark-skinned South African man. It was clear he was homeless from the way he was dressed. Before he spoke, I felt myself anticipate his request for change or food. He began explaining to us that he kept watch over cars to prevent other vagrants and criminals from breaking in while their owners dined or shopped nearby. As we began to speak, the homeless man’s eyes lit up and a broad smile appeared on his face. “Americans?” he asked. “Yes, we are,” we replied. “Oh, wow! Hey, you guys are real niggas, yeah?” he exclaimed, reaching out his hand to shake ours. I was taken aback. This was not the first time I had had such an encounter when traveling abroad. But being confronted with the reviled “n” word by an African, in Africa of all places, shook the foundation of my own very romantic ideals about the motherland. I took his hand, looked him in the eyes and said, “No friend, we’re brothers.” “No, no you don’t understand,” the man continued excitedly. “You guys are the real niggas! I like niggas! I want to be a nigga too. You are like the real thing. Not like these other Nigerians or something, who come and pretend to be niggas. You guys are the real niggas.” My friend and I continued to try to explain to the man that we were not niggas but black men—brothers—and that it was not OK to call a black person a nigga. By this time, our South African friends had caught up with us and heard enough of the conversation to add their voices to the mix. “It’s not nigga in a bad way. Nigga is a good thing now. It’s cool to be a nigga.” “Yeah, it’s NIGG-AH,” continued one of my friends, stressing the ‘ah’ sound, “not NIGG-ER.” The clarification was unnecessary. I clearly understood the homeless man to begin with. I understood the delight he felt at meeting two young, African American males. It was for him a rare chance to exercise his never-beforeused “hip hop lingo.” To greet my friend and me as “niggas” was an honor for him. He believed that the use of this word would open up a new dimension of communication between us, one that superseded the common experience of the English language or his native dialect. A lingua franca. The experience on that Cape Town street forced me to consider the implications of commoditized and globally exported black American culture. I began to question the specific types of images and ideas about blackness

102

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

that are sold at home and abroad. What informs the decision to promote certain aspects of black culture as opposed to others? My thoughts focused on hip hop specifically, but this train of thought led me to consider other pop cultural movements associated with the black American experience, and how they too have influenced the way blackness is perceived around the world. There are many glaring contradictions where corporate and commercial interests become invested in black culture. For example, when black filmmakers like Melvin Van Peebles began producing, directing, and distributing their own politically charged films in the late 1960s/early 1970s, they were reacting to the lack of access for black artists in Hollywood. However, the success of those films prompted Hollywood studios to invest largely in creating similar films—later dubbed Blaxploitation1—for black audiences. Where films like Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971) once offered compelling and empowering characterizations of black resistance, Hollywood was only interested in particular tropes, and just enough to shift their politics into images that reified particular stereotypes. By shifting the weight of the inherent politics and contradictions in work by filmmakers like Van Peebles and Gordon Parks, Hollywood and its corporate partners were able to ward off a potential rebellion that threatened to disrupt established systems. In one way a healthy injection of Hollywood capital helped to empower black directors, writers, and actors and introduced America to many wonderfully talented artists who lacked opportunities in Hollywood. However, by playing up certain stereotypes of black characters, Blaxploitation films helped reiterate racist conceptions of black people that fed into a larger public discourse. What began as an emancipatory discourse became the opposite as it was taken over by more commercial interests. The exchange between the traditionally racist and oppressive capitalist system and the socio-political ambitions of black cultural productions (equality, mobility, legal and economic justice, education, etc.) is caught in an uneasy and complicated tension. This tension is what I refer to as “whirl trade.” Whirl trade posits that a precarious dialogue between progressive black identity and capitalist enterprise emerges when the two are combined. Traditional discourse on race has historically involved problematic representations of black bodies all over the world. In our contemporary whirl trade of commoditized and globally exported identities, hegemonic notions of racial hierarchies are upheld through the marketing and consumption A genre of American film of the 1970s featuring African American actors in lead roles and often having anti-establishment plots, frequently criticized for stereotypical characterization and glorification of violence. While African American filmmakers were substantially involved in making early movies in this genre, their participation in subsequent productions was minimal. 1



Whirl trade

103

of what are traditionally perceived to be deviant bodies. As commodities, representations of an essentialized blackness have significant global impact. By examining how certain images and ideas are used, particularly in hip hop, I argue that the whirl trade ultimately works to repress resistance to oppressive regimes through capitalist control and intervention.

Conquering visibility… colonizing visuality… The visual field is not neutral to the question of race; it is itself a racial formation, an episteme, hegemonic and forceful. (JUDITH BUTLER)2

Frantz Fanon is often cited for his story of being made racially marked and psychologically dismembered by a young white boy, who upon seeing him declared, “Look! A Negro” (Fanon 1952: 91). This narrative has set the stage for many scholars to examine the psychic trauma associated with this kind of racialized marking and the spectacle of deviance implicit in non-white bodies within white-dominated society. Identity, difference, ethnicity, and personal history are all subsumed and simultaneously negated. Marked as Other, the black body becomes confined to and restricted by imperialist concepts of race. These concepts become the basis for racism and help to establish a racial hierarchy. By identifying blackness as Other (dangerous, guilty), whiteness by comparison becomes the default, normal (safe, innocent). My experience in Cape Town differs from Fanon’s in many ways but the effect is somewhat similar. Being labeled as a “nigga” by a black man on the streets of South Africa was my own “Fanonian Moment.” The experience shattered my own fantasy of being a black man who travels to Africa, the motherland. The shock of being marked “nigga” trapped me within a dizzying narrative of desire and disgust, celebration and betrayal. As one who grew up in hip hop’s first official generation, I am always proud to associate with the culture. But in that moment, hip hop was not liberating. Instead, I became tethered by the weight of the word “nigga” and all the heavy debate, history, and controversy that came with it. No longer man, human, African—I became a nigga. Homi K. Bhaba makes reference to Fanon’s anecdote as he writes: “the very question of identification only emerges in-between disavowal and designation. It is performed in the agonistic struggle between the epistemological, visual demand for a knowledge of the Other, and its representation in the act of articulation and enunciation” (Bhaba 1994: 50). This visual 2

“Endangered/Endangering: Schematic Racism and White Paranoia,” 1993.

104

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

demand to which Bhaba refers is a device of racism. Identifying a person as a race becomes a methodology to control both action and reaction. The dominant power structure is dependent on its ability to effectively visualize, manage, predict, and prescribe responses to perceived threats by effectively giving a face to the dangers that threaten it. Ultimately the visual demand is an exercise of racism, a way of making Otherness, in this case race, legible.

C-O-N- spiracy Fast-forward to 1992. The number one song is Fight the Power, Fight the Power is on the radio. Rodney King gets beat before the world and the Black youth rebelled against the system… Fast-forward to our day, Sean Bell gets shot 50 times in the street in New York by police officers. The number one song is Like a Lollipop. Nobody does nothing. Nobody respond to nothing... (WISE INTELLIGENT)3

In Black Sexual Politics, Patricia Hill Collins writes, “There are two themes here—the substance of racial ideologies under the new racism and the forms in which ideologies are created, circulated, and resisted” (2005: 34). Despite sweeping political and social reform such as the passing of the Civil Rights Act4 and the end of legalized segregation witnessed in the mid- to late twentieth century, economic gaps continued to widen and marginalize large portions of the population. Hip hop—and its vocal embodiment, rap music—emerged as a site of resistance to structures of power that largely ignored, marginalized, and oppressed black communities. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the children of this generation—many born in abject socio-economic environments—began to vocalize their pain and anguish through rap music and other aspects of hip hop culture. Although attempts were made to quell this burgeoning rebellion, including attempts to ban and censor5 hip hop music, the raw expressive truth of these youthful voices, the realities that gave rise to the music, and the convergence of an evolving visual culture (including graffiti art and the rise of music videos) soon enabled the culture’s expansion into suburban America. Once embraced by white youth, the economic vitality of hip hop culture and rap music could

Final Call News Network (FinalCall.com) (2009). Wise Intelligent: Connecting Hip Hop, Culture and the Struggle. 4 The Civil Rights Act of 1964 outlawed major forms of discrimination against racial, ethnic, national, and religious minorities, and women. 5 In 1989, the FBI attempted to censor rap group N.W.A. citing that their song “Fuck the Police” encouraged violence and disrespect toward law officials. 3



Whirl trade

105

no longer be denied. Additionally, as variations of hip hop culture began to spring up in various parts of the world, it soon became apparent that hip hop was no passing fad, but a global movement. Subcultures rooted in hip hop’s visual culture, fashion, and music began to emerge in Japan as heads of state from various European nations6 played host to break dancers and MCs. Considering the success and popularity of hip hop and its many forms, it was clear to see that the power of the movement could be monumental. Over the last 20 years there has been a major corporate re-visioning of hip hop that is more closely aligned with traditionally racist ideologies than the more social, economic, and political anguish expressed in the early years of hip hop. In her essay, “Rise Up Hip Hop Nation,” Kristine Wright (2012) asserts that despite the fact that hip hop music is primarily created and produced by African Americans, corporate America and whitedominated media control its distribution. This creates an unusual tension that ultimately obligates hip hop to the same system that forced its existence and subjects it to the vision that these corporate structures imagine for the culture. This corporate imagining often contradicts itself through the simultaneous promotion and disavowal of controversial rap artists. In April 2013, rapper Rick Ross came under fire for his lyrics on Rocko’s “U.O.E.N.O.” In the song, Ross blatantly alludes to date-raping a woman after drugging her with Molly.7 In response, the athletic shoe company Reebok severed its ties with Ross, but only after receiving numerous complaints including a petition from feminist-activist group Ultra Violet and Change.org. However, radio stations across the country—many of which receive a considerable amount of money from these same corporate sponsors—continued to play a censored version of the song and it remains available in its original form on websites, blogs, and digital record stores. This type of negative imagery sets a dangerous precedent about black men and women, drug use, and rape. The conflicting response to rappers who put forth violent and destructive messages in their music is troubling. The Rick Ross example shows that we should question certain images of hip hop and the knowledge value they carry. The impact of these images, both overt and implied, can be examined by working to understand whom certain representations benefit and to what end. This examination will also draw our attention to those images and visual representations that are not easily visible within the discourse. Patricia Hill Collins writes, “Mass media’s tendency to blur the lines between fact and fiction has important consequences for perceptions of Black culture and Black people” (1999: 151). Today, commercial radio is saturated with a repetitive loop of songs by the same artists who rap about the same things: money, women, drugs, The New York City Breakers performed at the Vatican as well as for the King and Queen of Norway in the mid-1980s. 7 Molly is the popular street name for the mood-enhancing drug MDMA. 6

106

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

and crime. The music, like the images, offers an aesthetic that reifies many traditionally racist, yet consumable stereotypes about black culture. Traditionally, black men have been portrayed as hypersexual, brutish, inherently criminal, and prone to violence. Today’s image and performance of black men as gangsters, thugs, drug dealers, low-lifes, and predators have come to dominate the perception of hip hop. The success of artists who offer these supposedly self-reflexive narratives becomes an irresistible temptation to young artists who desire to be successful and for fans wishing to connect with their favorite artists. Another example of the contradictions that emerge in hip hop’s whirl trade can be seen with rapper Jay-Z. With a career spanning close to 16 years, Jay-Z has grown from drug dealer to hip hop mogul, entrepreneur, brand icon, and political/cultural attaché. Throughout his discography, Jay-Z makes reference to his career as a drug dealer and street hustler (prior to legitimizing as a rapper) as well as boastful allusions to his exorbitant lifestyle. In many ways he seems to suggest that his financial privilege places him above the law. As one of the most visible figures in hip hop culture, a recent trip to Cuba with his wife and pop music diva, Beyoncé, prompted a great deal of public and political scrutiny due to his personal relationship with President Barack Obama. In response to outcry over his Cuban vacation, he recorded “Open Letter,” where he raps: Wanna give me jail time and a fine Fine, let me commit a real crime I might buy a kilo for Chief Keef Out of spite, I just might flood these streets Here, Jay-Z suggests that he is never too far removed from his past to revert to his old ways. Further, he suggests that if his critics want to criminalize him, he can commit a “real crime” that would trump their criticism just for spite. Jay-Z’s life and narratives maintain racist stereotypes, despite the fantasy of him as an American ideal: the self-made man. On one hand, Jay-Z’s story is like that of a young Henry Ford: an aspiring and diligent tinkerer who translated his love of engineering into a revolution in transportation. On the other hand, Jay-Z’s narrative fits neatly within a dominant discourse that visualizes black bodies as complicit with deviant behavior, such as selling drugs. Many rappers have offered critiques or observations about a corporate conspiracy to defame hip hop culture. Legendary hip hop artist Wise Intelligent, of the group Poor Righteous Teachers, asserts that the corporate interest in hip hop culture is invested in and committed to suppressing black political and economic rebellion in mainstream society. In a 2009 forum on the state of hip hop Wise Intelligent states:



Whirl trade

107

Hip-hop changing from positive to negative was not a consequence of history. It was not a circumstance of history. It was nothing that just happened on its own. It had nothing to do with the changing of the times, it had nothing to do with that it has everything to do with the fact that there are people in this particular society who want to see us exactly where we are.8 Wise Intelligent references a sociological study commissioned in 1967 by President Lyndon B. Johnson. The Kerner Report cited youthful black pride and high self-esteem as the sources of civil unrest. The Report suggests that black pride—as influenced by and reflected through black popular culture—played a major role in urging young black people to vocally and often physically retaliate against perceived oppression and civil disparities in America. Wise Intelligent goes on to compare the black power movements in the late 1960s and early 1970s to the pride and selfawareness generated in early hip hop culture. The images of black pride and power as made visible by groups like Public Enemy, for example, contradicted and posed a threat to the political and economic systems profiting from black oppression and poverty. Voices of dissent like that of Public Enemy and other socially conscious rap groups of that era were once inextricably linked to mainstream hip hop culture, but now appear to have all but disappeared. Groups like Public Enemy, Poor Righteous Teachers, Brand Nubian, and X-Clan—with roots in black religious, political, and social organizations like the Nation of Islam and the 5% Nation—at one time played on the radio alongside more controversial acts like 2 Live Crew and N.W.A. The power of black music to inform, engage, and activate communities to think and act outside of the controlling images needed to be silenced. One clear shift in the types of images that constitute today’s hip hop culture and music can be seen in the emergence of gangsta rap. West Coast gang culture, ironically, was born from the ashes of groups like the Black Panther Party and the People’s Liberation Army. Cle “Bone” Sloan’s sobering documentary Bastards of the Party (2005) lays out a careful genealogy of gang culture and its rise in hip hop. According to Sloan’s film, gangs were originally organized around protecting and providing for their communities. As a result of the systematic murder and incarceration of black men in these communities, these gangs disintegrated into petty turf and color wars. Misguided youth, with a lack of role models and resources, turned to gang culture as a means of belonging and discovering their identity. As economic disparities deepened and drugs became a quick and easy way to make money, the violence escalated. By the late 1980s the Final Call News Network (FinalCall.com) (2009). Wise Intelligent: Connecting Hip Hop, Culture and the Struggle.

8

108

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

gang culture in South Central Los Angeles had reached epic proportions. The gangsta or thug meme fits well within dominant conceptions of black men as violent criminals. Through the popularity of groups like N.W.A., this meme also became easily commodifiable. Overtime, with corporate investment in these stereotypes, the gangster has become synonymous with hip hop along with the pimp, ho, criminal, and drug dealer. It would seem that corporate and political entities would disavow these images due to the criminality and immoral behavior they imply, but the opposite has in fact occurred. These types of images have instead become the most sought after and lucrative.

Conclusion On that warm February night in 2009, I experienced my Fanonian Moment. I was instantly caught up in the whirl trade of consumable stereotypes associated with hip hop culture. The experience awakened me to the power of images to determine, mold, and define communities of people. Moreover, it made me painfully aware of what the hyper-visibility of these stereotypes veiled: a hidden agenda to preserve dominant racial ideologies. My experience in Cape Town was not a traumatizing experience simply because of being called a “nigga.” Rather, this experience was a sobering wake-up call, one that brought my dizzying whirl to an abrupt stop. Being a product of the whirl trade, I too was mystified and blinded by the ways that controlling images had shaped my own identity and worldview. The experience awakened me to my own deep-seated contradictions about my identity as a black man. Hearing myself be referred to as a “nigga” in a foreign country, and on a continent where I fantasized that a pure, authentic blackness existed, knocked the wind out of me. In that moment, the homeless gentleman and I were connected on a deeper level of understanding. Our paths crossing opened up a new perspective for me. I can only hope my words reached him as his did me. I hope that in that exchange I was able to enlighten him to see beyond the collapsed identities and flat stereotypes that are privileged in various economies: social, cultural, political, and financial. And that when we reduce our interactions with each other to the popular images we see in media, we do a disservice to the experience of our humanity. And that as long as we are made to believe we are niggers, we can never be men.



Whirl trade

109

References Bhaba, Homi K. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Butler, Judith. 1993. “Endangered/Endangering: Schematic Racism and White Paranoia.” In Robert Gooding-Williams, ed., Reading Rodney King, Reading Urban Uprising, pp. 15–22. New York: Routledge. Collins, Patricia Hill. 2000. Mammies, Matriarchs, and Other Controlling Images. New York: Routledge Press. —2005. Black Sexual Politics. New York: Routledge. Fanon, Frantz. 1952. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove Press. Final Call News Network (FinalCall.com). http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=pV4mhxpaEmk (uploaded March 26, 2009). Video file. Fleetwood, Nicole R. 2011. Troubling Vision, Performance, Visuality & Blackness. London: The University of Chicago Press. Sloan, Cle “Bone.” 2005. Bastards of the Party. Directed by Cle “Bone” Sloan. Produced and distributed by Fuqua Films. www.bastardsofthepartyDVD.com. 95 min. Wright, Kristine. 2012. “Rise Up Hip Hop Nation: From Deconstructing Racial Politics to Building Positive Solutions.” In M. Forman and M. A. Neal, eds, That’s the Joint! The Hip-Hop Studies Reader (2nd edn). London: Routledge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Liberation hip hop Palestinian hip hop and peaceful resistance Denise DeGarmo and E. Duff Wrobbel

Editors’ note Several chapters up until now (Boggs, Schur, and Pecou in particular) have drawn on the rich scholarship that has acknowledged hip hop’s origins in black culture in the United States. With Denise DeGarmo and E. Duff Wrobbel’s “Liberation Hip Hop,” we turn to the veritable organic quality of hip hop by shining a light on its role in the struggles of those living in the Palestinian territories. DeGarmo and Wrobbel argue that hip hop in the Occupied Palestinian Territory serves to politicize the Israeli-Palestinian conflict through music. Palestinian hip hop artists express their grievances with the social and political circumstances of living under occupation by tailoring Arabic musical traditions with popular Palestinian political songs supporting resistance. Although its roots are certainly found in 1970s American rap, the authors contend that Palestinian hip hop is on balance much more politically charged. In our view, the connection between cultural and social awareness and social activism is more pronounced—even if not yet clearly defined and developed. DeGarmo and Wrobbel employ a content analysis approach to Palestinian hip hop and uncover some interesting conclusions that are at once

112

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

unsurprising and fascinating: the consistent themes found in Palestinian hip hop are the Israeli-Palestine conflict, living conditions under occupation, Palestinian unity, and the establishment of an independent Palestinian state. The theme of an independent Palestinian state, they argue, lies at the heart of all Palestinian hip hop regardless of artist. Palestinian hip hop not only challenges pre-existing stereotypes about Palestinians, it provokes discussion of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict among its listeners. Further, Palestinian hip hop has its own organic globalizing qualities: a truly transnational phenomenon, since Palestinian hip hop artists represent the diaspora of Palestinian society including the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, Jerusalem, Israel, refugee camps, and immigrant communities abroad. DeGarmo and Wrobbel’s work is one of the first to examine the dynamics of hip hop as a tool for political resistance in conflict zones such as Palestine. And it suggests that Palestinian hip hop may be a viable and effective tool for social and political change—as well as an alternative to traditional armed resistance. ***

Introduction Music has historically been an important part of Palestinian peaceful resistance. Since the Al-Aqsa Intifada in 2002, resistance movements in the West Bank and Gaza have been infused with a new creativity—hip hop. This music genre purposely addresses issues such as Palestinian self-determination, racism, ethnocide, violence, and occupation. In other words, hip hop serves as a Palestinian Al Jazeera. It expresses the political, economic, social, and cultural realities faced by Palestinians and has become one of the most important forms of peaceful resistance to Israeli occupation. Peaceful resistance in this context refers to any person who is producing work that challenges stereotypes and state or foreign policies or creates work that reflects Palestinian culture and history. Thus, hip hop becomes a means of communicating themes targeting local populations, and Palestinian hip hop artists are creating lyrics about their life in Occupied Palestine and “apartheid” Israel. While violent episodes of resistance still dot the landscape, since the end of the Second Intifada most Palestinians acknowledge an intentional move away from violence to more “passive or peaceful” ways to protest Israeli occupation. Peaceful resistance includes “Apartheid Wall” protests, public art, wall murals, theater, photography, and hip hop. As Sarah Daynes suggests in her book, “when individual memories are threatened by erasure, music provides individuals with a way to build community” (Daynes 2010:



Liberation hip hop

113

10). For Palestinian hip hop artists, the genre is a powerful and popular way for people to share their views about the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, as well as on a myriad of other issues. In this chapter, we will analyze hip hop music’s role as an alternative to traditional armed resistance. To this end, we first discuss the logic behind the use of peaceful resistance in Palestine. Next, we will provide an overview of the rise of hip hop in the Occupied Palestinian Territories. We go on to examine why this particular music genre is “ripe” for the move toward peaceful resistance. In the final section, some of the predominant socialpolitical themes present in contemporary hip hop lyrics will be analyzed using inductive content analysis. Our analysis reveals that Palestinian hip hop is used as a form of dialogue to educate the global community about the occupation, perpetuate Palestinian national identity, and mobilize peaceful resistance to the Israeli colonial project. This examination is important because there have been relatively few attempts to seriously analyze hip hop’s significance in passive resistance in today’s Occupied Palestinian Territories.

The history of non-violence in Palestine There is a common perception, especially among those in the West, that all Palestinian resistance to Israeli occupation is violent or radical in nature. Sporadic acts of terror or other forms of violence seem to shape these perceptions to a greater degree than the suffering brought about by Israeli occupation. However, this perception is not an accurate one. There is a long history of non-violent actions and campaigns, particularly in today’s Palestine. For instance, in 1902 the residents of Palestinian villages al-Shajara, Misha, and Melhamiyya held a peaceful protest against European Zionists who confiscated over 7,000 hectares of their agricultural land (Palestinian Monitor 2012: 1). A six-month, non-violent industrial strike against the British Mandate’s refusal to grant sovereignty and selfdetermination to Palestine occurred in 1936. In 1986 a call went out for Palestinians to boycott Israeli products including cigarettes, soap, food, water, clothes, and other consumer goods (Palestinian Monitor 2012: 1). Despite media reports and representations, the First Intifada (1987–93) was largely non-violent in orientation. Palestinians organized mass demonstrations and refused to pay taxes (Palestinian Monitor 2012: 1). At the behest of community leaders across the West Bank and Gaza, Palestinians planted olive trees on Palestinian land identified by the Israelis for confiscation and settlement building because Israeli military law prohibited any construction on groves of fruit. Since construction began on the Israeli “Separation Wall” in 2002, Palestinian villages have been at the forefront of peaceful resistance. As of

114

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

2014, village residents in the communities of Jayyous, Budrus, Bil’in, Ni’lin, and Umm Salamonah still non-violently resist construction of the wall that is threatening to surround them and cut them off from the rest of the Occupied Palestinian Territories. Weekly non-violent wall demonstrations occur through the West Bank in the cities of Bil’in, Nihlin, and Qalandia. It is not unusual for Palestinian protestors to be joined by sympathetic Israelis and international activists.

The logic of non-violent resistance in the Occupied Palestinian state The logic of a non-violent strategy to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is simple. According to interviews conducted in the West Bank, Palestinians reported that non-violence is much more appealing to them than militancy. They also stated that non-violent tactics allow for greater participation across all segments of Palestinian society. This was true in the First Intifada, which is characterized as an empowering event for civil society, women, and both the young and old. The same cannot be said of the Second Intifada, where participation seemed to be restricted by one’s willingness to fight violently. Palestinian activists have discovered that by replacing militancy with non-violence, the perception of victimhood as being solely attributed to Israel has changed in some corners of the global community. Greater empathy toward Palestine will eventually change policy. However, it should also be noted that a decrease in violence might also translate into a decrease in media attention, which many believe necessary to change public opinion and policy toward Palestinians. David McDonald notes that music has become an acceptable way to express the violent discontent associated with years of occupation and, in fact, “that a singer on stage in the PT has power equal to that of martyrs in the streets” (McDonald 2009: 79).

The rise of Palestinian hip hop Hip hop is a music genre imbued with cultural overtones. It emerged in the 1970s in predominantly African American parts of New York City, specifically the areas of the Bronx and Brooklyn. What was new about this particular musical genre was the way in which poetic lyrics were fused with the rhythmic beats of separate and distinct records. Hip hop encompassed the grief of black Americans while giving voice to the racism, police violence, drug use, political alienation, and despair faced by African Americans on a daily basis. Notable hip hop artists include the Sugarhill Gang, The



Liberation hip hop

115

Notorious B.I.G., Snoop Dogg, and Tupac Shakur. American hip hop provided the outside world with a glimpse into African American culture. Borrowing from American forms of hip hop, Palestinian artists have tailored the style to express their own grievances with occupation: racial inequality, foreign occupation, poverty, police violence, alienation, and the fall-out from ill-conceived U.S. policies. Palestinian hip hop artists often pay homage to the messages of American rappers as articulated by DAM’s Tamar Nafar, “When I heard Tupac sing ‘It’s a White Man’s World’ I decided to take hip hop seriously” (Sunaina 2008). Palestinian hip hop artists are both influenced by American hip hop, and they include elements from the Palestinian and Arabic traditions of the spoken word. Palestinian music and song have been synonymous with peaceful resistance since the Arab Revolt period of 1936–9. Nuh Ibrahim, a follower of Palestinian leader Izzaad-din al-Qassam, is considered the first poet to combine Islamic resistance songs with those of Palestinian national lyrics (Yacobi 2007: 136). In 1948, the “Nakba,” or catastrophe as it is also known, forcibly dispossessed thousands of Palestinians from their homes, their towns, and their villages. Thousands of Palestinians were forced to move into established villages located in the Jordanian-held West Bank. Others were forced into refugee camps within the West Bank and abroad. A few hundred Palestinians were allowed to remain in the “now” Jewish cities of Lod, Acre, Haifa, Jaffa, Nazareth, and Ramlah. Mohammad Abd al-Wahhab is credited with the first attempt to redress the “Nakba” and align Arab nationalism with Palestinian liberation. His song “Filastin” was released in 1949 (Lee 2010: 1). Egyptian intelligentsia Sheikh Imam ‘Isa was another important figure who fueled the revolutionary spirit among Palestinians in 1968. Through his lyrics he encouraged solidarity with Yasser Arafat’s Palestine Liberation Organization. In the 1967 War, Israel conquered the land held by the Jordanians and put these territories under the control of the Israeli Defense Forces, which proceeded to “ghettoize” the surviving Palestinians. Years of occupation, dispossession, Diaspora, demolishment of homes, and institutionalized racism led to considerable suffering among the Palestinians regardless of their location. A new genre of political songs emerged among Palestinian Diaspora musicians, such as al-Firqah al-Markaziyya and Abu ‘Arab. These particular songs employed mawwal, ‘ataba, or mijana, and focused on outrage and the grief of losing Palestinian villages at the hands of the Israeli Defense Forces and settlers. In the 1970s and 1980s, the works of the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish were set to music by the Lebanese singer Marcel Khalife in order to highlight the everyday struggle for a Palestinian national identity. It was also during this period that Palestinian musicians were first forced underground as Israelis came to view Palestinian music as a powerful tool of propaganda and weapon of peaceful resistance. Musicians worked

116

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

under the threat of arrest and censorship. Rather than stifling Palestinian creativity, Israeli efforts at censorship only fueled wider popularity for musical resistance. During the First Intifada two forms of resistance emerged across the Palestinian landscape. First, given the number of lives lost as a result of violent resistance by Palestinian fighters, many believed that people living in the West Bank and Gaza should refrain from all forms of music to pay respect to those who were martyred. At the same time, many Palestinians viewed music as a way to express the horrible conditions being inflicted on them through occupation. Many new musical groups formed at this time to specifically counter heightened militancy. Prominent artists who emerged during the First Intifada include Sabreen, Amal Murkus, Rim Banna, Nawa, Baladna, al-’Ashiqeen, Firqat al-Fanun al-Sha’biyyah, Issa Boulos, and Trio Joubran. These groups expanded their work during the peace process of the 1990s. The failure of the Oslo Accord in 2000 was the “straw that broke the camel’s back.” Not only had the attempt at a lasting peace failed, but Israeli settlement building continued to disaggregate Palestinian territory, living conditions in Palestine rapidly deteriorated, and Israeli occupation became more aggressive through the extensive use of Israeli military orders. When Ariel Sharon stepped foot on the soil of the al-Aqsa mosque, the growing frustration of Palestinian youth with the broken promise of national sovereignty erupted, giving birth to the Second or Al-Aqsa Intifada in 2000. Fearing the loss of hope and cause, DAM (Das Arabian MCs) released “Meen Erhabe?” (“Who’s a Terrorist?”) in 2001. It became clear that young Palestinians wanted to establish a new political landscape that better represented their political environment. Hip hop provided Palestinian youth with a new political vocabulary (Oslo 2014: 1). The rise of Palestinian hip hop corresponds with the collapse of the peace process. Hip hop artists confronted a host of issues including social issues, the hypocrisy of Arab governments, the commercial corruption of music, and the crisis of being caught between two cultures in addition to daily life under Israeli occupation. Some of the more notable Palestinian hip hop groups/individuals include DAM (Das Arabian MCs), SAZ (Sameh Zakout), Sabreena Da Witch, G-Town (Ghetto Town), Ramallah Underground, PR (Palestinian Rappers or Palestinian Resistance), and Mohammed Farrah (DR or Dynamic Rapper). There are several important roles that hip hop plays in terms of peaceful resistance. First, it provides a disenfranchised population with a global voice. The Palestinian and Israeli governments often ignore Palestinians unless those voices turn violent. Then, those voices are quelled through arrest or administrative detention. These global voices are particularly important in terms of keeping Palestinian identity alive in the midst of Israeli efforts to erase it (Taipai Times 2006: 1). Second, hip hop remains an important tool to remind the Western world that Palestinians are alive and will not be



Liberation hip hop

117

silenced. Third, in the face of erasure, Palestinian hip hop, specifically, acts as a means of constructing, promoting, and perpetuating national identity. Finally, hip hop music allows Palestinian youth to challenge injustices while reclaiming artistic, political, and spiritual space (Lee 2010: 1). It is a “universal tool to talk back to mainstream society” (Lee 2010: 1).

Method and analysis of Palestinian hip hop In order to identify the ways in which Palestinian hip hop directly contributes to peaceful resistance in the Occupied Palestinian state, an inductive content analysis was performed. Inductive content analysis is a qualitative tool used by social scientists to analyze verbal and written materials. A set of codes is developed to help researchers identify specific patterns and trends in areas where there is limited knowledge. We first selected several Palestinian hip hop songs for this analysis and then translated the lyrics into English. The following list of songs was used for our analysis: MM

“Long Live Palestine” (also known as “Tears to Laughter”) by Lowkey, digitally released on March 9, 2009;

MM

“Mali Huriye” (also known as “I Don’t Have Freedom”) by DAM, digitally released in 2006;

MM

“Hymn to Justice” by Sheikh Imam ‘Isa, released in 1968;

MM

“Who’s a Terrorist?” by DAM, released in Slingshot Hiphop 2008;

MM

“Born Here ’90” by DAM, released in 2007;

MM

“The Prisoner” by P.R., released in 2002;

MM

“G’areeb Fi Biladi” (also known as “Stranger in My Own Country”) by DAM, released in 2003;

MM

“If I’d Go Back in Time” by DAM, released in 2012.

Sets of lyrics were then provided to a group of coders, each of whom was asked to work independently and identify themes in the lyrics using an open coding approach. Themes were described as any recurrent ideas and images found in the texts, and coders were to make a note of them. These notes were then grouped and collapsed independently by each coder. Finally, coders worked together to compare these lists, and a “master” list of themes was generated from these materials. As a result of this analysis, four broad themes were identified, as well as one interesting language phenomenon.

118

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Results of inductive content analysis: themes What follows are the specific results of our analysis. They are presented in “themes”—sets of individual song lyrics found by the coders to hold together in a thematically coherent and “nameable” manner. Each theme is thus named, along with the various elements that constitute that particular theme, such that the consistent threads running through the analyzed songs become clear. For each theme, we present, in a bullet-pointed list, actual (translated) lyrics taken directly from the eight songs in the corpus and agreed upon by the coders as representative of that theme. When there are sub-themes, those sets of lyrics are also provided in bullet-pointed lists. Thus, they are analyzed as a singular corpus, rather than seven discreet units of analysis. The lyrics below are organized by the title of the hip hop song in which they were found. The first theme, and among the most pervasive, is “violence.” This theme includes references to killing, war, weapons, theft, and rape. “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

You’re killing us like you’ve killed our ancestors

MM

You’ve killed my loved ones, now I’m all alone

MM

Look at how many you’ve killed

“Long Live Palestine” MM

We will never really know how many people are dead, They still die when you bomb their schools, mosques, and hospitals

MM

It’s not a war—they’re just murdering more rapidly

“If I’d Go Back in Time” The lyrics also have numerous references to the weapons used by the Israeli Defense Forces in their role as occupiers, as illustrated in various songs selected for this project. “Long Live Palestine” MM

They drop bombs on little girls while they sleep in their beds

MM

That’s another pistol in the holster of a soulless soldier

“If I’d Go Back in Time” MM

Without shame, her brother puts the gun in his pocket



Liberation hip hop

119

“Born Here ’90” MM

Add to it, white pepper, and it will be sneezed from a loaded gun (Note: white pepper is a reference to white phosphorous, which is an incendiary chemical that burns whatever it touches, including human flesh.)

There were also references to rape, theft, and physical violence. “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Your countless raping of the Arab soul

MM

This is not just a war over stolen land, you’ve taken everything I own

MM

When you’ve taken my land, you’re the terrorist!

“If I’d Go Back in Time” MM

Blood flows from her lips to her nose, a sound of a fist, his hand jumps from her face

Another overarching theme found in lyrics of these songs is “oppression.” This includes both overt references to political subjugation as well as references to politics, media, truthfulness, and commercialism. Below are references to oppression and imprisonment. “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Our freedom chained up, you oppress, you kill

“Mali Huriye” MM

The dreams I carried have become an oppressed prison

MM

All of my life dedicated to one room dominated by oppression

MM

Living as prisoners behind the bars of paragraphs

MM

We haven’t seen any light, and if we peek between the bars

MM

Under the pressure of occupation, refusing to give up, so why don’t I have freedom? Because I refuse to live in slavery

Oppression is also expressed with references to both local and international politics, and with particular references to the United States.

120

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

“Long Live Palestine” MM

Israel blocked the UN from delivering food

MM

Israel is a terror state, they’re terrorists that terrorize

MM

Obama promised Israel 30 billion over the next decade

“Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Which is, that the whole world till today is treating us as Israelis, and Israel till tomorrow will treat us as Palestinians

MM

In the shadow of politics we all kneel

“G’areeb Fi Biladi” MM

We are dying slowly, controlled by a Zionist democratic government! Ya’, to the Jewish soul, and Zionist to the Arabic soul

MM

The U.S. has made it their 51st state, cleaning the Middle East of its Indians

Periodically, there are also references to role of the media in propping up the occupation. “Long Live Palestine” MM

I testify, my television televised them telling lies

MM

I’m not related to the strangers on the TV, but I relate because those faces could have been me

MM

They’ll bring in the troops and you won’t even glimpse at the news

There is also a thread of consideration for truthfulness. “Long Live Palestine” MM

Forget emotions, this is fact, what I spit is the truth, makes no difference if you’re a Christian or if you’re a Jew

MM

Don’t get offended by facts, just try to listen, nothing is more anti-Semitic than Zionism

MM

I testify, my television televised them telling lies, this is not a war, it is systematic genocide

Finally, there are also references to money, consumerism, and commercial



Liberation hip hop

121

products associated with notions of supporting occupation through U.S. foreign policy or purchasing Israeli goods. “Long Live Palestine” MM

They make money of the products that we are quick to consume

MM

Every coin is a bullet, if you’re Marks and Spencer, and when you’re sipping Coca-Cola

MM

Forget Nestlé, Obama promised Israel 30 billion over the next decade

MM

Think about that when you’re putting Huggies nappies on your baby

MM

While we listen to tunes, made by ignorant fools, Israel blocked the UN from delivering food

MM

But you put money in their pocket when you’re buying their coffee, talking about revolution, sitting in Starbucks

“Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Our blood is cheaper than a dog’s. No! My blood is valuable.

The final over arching theme found in this music concerned Palestinian identity. This included references to Palestine and being Palestinian, being a “terrorist,” to “home,” to geography, and to hope for the future. “Long Live Palestine” MM

Long live Palestine, Long live Gaza!

MM

Palestine remains in my heart forever

“Mali Huriye” MM

I’ll still be connected to Palestine like an embryo to the umbilical cord

MM

Palestinians, I want to come and be with you, weapons in hand

While at times Israelis are referred to as terrorists, the term “terrorist” is often used in an interesting rhetorical manner. “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Who’s a terrorist?
 I’m a terrorist?!
 How am I the terrorist when I live in my homeland?

122

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

MM

Your countless raping of the Arab soul has impregnated it and given birth to a child. His name: suicide bomber, and then you call him the terrorist?

MM

How am I a terrorist when you’ve taken my land?! You’re the terrorist!

MM

Why a terrorist? Because my blood is not still?

MM

And I will defend myself even if you call me a terrorist

There are many explicit references to “home” and “homeland.” “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

How am I the terrorist when I live in my homeland?

“Born Here ’90” MM

Hunting season. They prey: another home of a dove trapped under the hawk’s regime

MM

Each day I see like a hundred cops arresting a dealer, here or here? No, they came to destroy his neighbor’s home

MM

Here I build my home, here you destroy it

While not pervasive enough (these references only appeared in a few of the songs) to be considered a “theme,” there were some very compelling references to the plight of women. “The Prisoner” MM

My beloved sister, who in order to gain my respect and appreciation faced the oppression, tyranny, and suppression engulfing mankind everywhere

“If I’d Go Back in Time” MM

Before she was murdered, she wasn’t alive

MM

They reach the house; throw her to the bed in violence

MM

Her mom says “your life is like heaven.” She’s right, if you taste the forbidden you better know someone is watching



Liberation hip hop

123

Unlike women, however, references to children were pervasive and seemed to cut across the other themes. “Long Live Palestine” MM

This is for the child that is searching for an answer, I wish I could take your tears and replace them with laughter

MM

How many more children have to be annihilated

MM

Why do you think little boys are throwing stones at tanks

“Mali Huriye” MM

Why can’t I be free like other children in this world?

MM

We searched for peace between generals until we all became war children

MM

Our eyes staring at the free children, always keep on rolling to a better life

MM

But all the biggest armies in the world are weak against the hope of the children

MM

We want a new generation that does not forgive mistakes, that does not bend. We want a generation of giants

“Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

Your countless raping of the Arab soul has impregnated it and given birth to a child. His name: suicide bomber

In addition to the various themes identified above, we also found some rather telling and interesting language usage—specifically, the use of pronouns. What we found is a pervasive and specific use of first and second person pronouns such that most of the lyrics were quite clearly dialogical— it was as if the words were coming from a specific individual or individuals (I/we), and directed to another specific individual or group of individuals (you). The I/we invariably refers to Palestinians: First person singular: “Long Live Palestine” MM

I wish I could take your tears and replace them with laughter

MM

Forget emotions, this is fact, what I spit is the truth

MM

I’m not related to the strangers on the TV

124

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

First person plural: “Long Live Palestine” MM

While we listen to tunes, made by ignorant fools, Israel blocked the UN from delivering food

MM

We stand for peace, in times of war we shan’t surrender

“If I’d Go Back in Time” MM

We’ll tell her story backward from her murder to her birth

“Mali Huriye” MM

We’ve been like this more than 50 years

There is one exception. Within the chorus of DAM’s “If I’d Go Back in Time,” about the abuse of a specific woman, the “I” is actually the specific voice of that woman (though note that this is still a Palestinian voice): MM

If I could go back in time, I would smile, fall in love, sing, if I could go back in time I would draw, write, sing

In this same song, the “you” occurs within the context of a set of dialogues with a young woman and family members such that the “you” clearly refers to this woman: MM

Her mom announces happily, “Tomorrow you will marry your cousin”

MM

“So you want to run away, huh?” They wake her with violence

MM

Her mom says, “Your life is like heaven”

Much more common is the use of “you” to indicate Israelis. “Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

You attack me but still you cry, when I remind you that you attacked me

MM

You grew up spoiled; we grew up in poverty

“Mali Huriy” MM

You won’t limit my hope by a wall of separation

Another common “you” is the aggregate outside world/United States.



Liberation hip hop

125

“Long Live Palestine” MM

You say you know about the Zionist lobby, but you put money in their pocket when you’re buying their coffee

MM

They’ll bring in the troops and you won’t even glimpse at the news

MM

Before you talk learn the meaning of that scarf on your neck

MM

Why do you think little boys are throwing stones at tanks

“Who’s a Terrorist?” MM

When did you become ruler?
 Look at how many you’ve killed, look at how many orphans you’ve created

“Hymn to Justice” MM

O Palestinians, I want to come and be with you, weapons in hand, and I want my hands to go down with yours to smash the snake’s head

And finally, “you” was once actually used as a reference to God. “Long Live Palestine” MM

It is not because of rockets, please God can you stop it all?

What we take away from this use of pronouns is that this music is deeply personal, that it is directed at very specific individuals and groups, and that it is generally structured as an attempt at dialogue. The use of inductive content analysis broadens our understanding of the role of hip hop in the transmission of Palestinian views on Israeli colonial rule. Lyrics paint a vivid picture of life under occupation. Through the graphic nature of hip hop lyrics, Palestinians, and the world for that matter, are provided with a glimpse into the power of violence associated with the Israeli colonial project. Periods of high-intensity violence are reflected through the themes of war, weapons, terrorism, and the targeting of civilians, specifically women and children. The lyrics help embed the battles and defeats of occupation in the collective memories of Palestinians. Hip hop questions the notion of “terrorism” through rhetorical interplay between Israeli “accusations” and actions. Hip hop also serves to remind Palestinians that arrest, administrative detention, or worse await them should they engage in violence against Israeli colonial rule. According to our analysis, the highlighting of oppression through the use of hip hop dialogue serves several important functions. The realities of Israeli oppression in the Occupied Palestinian state rarely make front-page

126

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

news. Thus, Palestinian oppression is “out of sight and out of the mind,” for the most part. As Palestinian hip hop goes global, so too does the plight of Palestinians. Detailing oppression provides Palestinians with a global voice to air their grievances. It serves as a “potential vehicle to usher in new forms of democratic participation, civic engagement and literacy” for disenfranchised and marginalized Palestinians (Malone and Martinez 2010: 532). According to the United Nations, women and children are overlooked victims of war (The Economist 2011: 1) Our analysis supports this conclusion by exposing the vulnerability of women and children to violence under occupation. They are victims of rape. They are oppressed and imprisoned. They are harassed and humiliated as they pass through Israeli checkpoints. Children are seen as both “terrorists” and a source of hope for the future of Palestinian identity. Our study also revealed that the lyrics of hip hop serve to strengthen Palestinian national identity through the promotion of a common history, resistance to occupation, and a profound attachment to a homeland. In the face of erasure by the Israeli colonial project, hip hop is an important tool to construct, promote, and perpetuate Palestinian national identity at home and abroad. Through a focus on international relations and media reporting, Palestinian hip hop educates people about the complexities of occupation. It reminds the global community that Palestine is alive and will not be silenced. In the midst of all the violence, oppression, and poverty experienced by the Palestinian community, there remains a strong commitment to peace and peaceful resistance. At performances it is not unusual for hip hop artists to chant “We want peace not war!” or advocate peaceful resistance by referencing the actions of Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King. According to Naseem Jabal, a young student interviewed during a 2012 trip to the West Bank, “We believe oppression makes people creative. It fuels resistance, peaceful resistance. It is our right to fight as we choose and we choose to fight through the lyrics of hip hop” (Malone and Martinez 2010: 542). Hip hop has become a powerful mechanism to educate and advocate for a humane society.

Conclusion Hip hop has become a mode of resistance to colonial projects around the world. It provides people with a forum to highlight their subjugation and/ or discontent. Hip hop promotes shared identity and personal narratives to tell a story and engage in dialogue. It is through the narratives of hip hop that the global community has become better educated about the plights of its neighbors, in this case the Palestinians.



Liberation hip hop

127

Palestinian hip hop will remain an important tool to promote peaceful resistance in the face of occupation. The use of confrontational lyrical styles communicates Palestinian views toward occupation. Personal narratives foster Palestinian national identity. Hip hop reasserts the Palestinian identity in the face of Israel’s Jewish character. It proclaims the trauma and suffering imposed upon Palestinians by the occupation. It is not afraid of discussing topics that range from chronic unemployment to appalling living conditions to endemic drug use. It brings the ills of Palestinian life to the forefront of global consciousness. Hip hop is providing a means of escaping the spiral of violence, which has most often characterized the PalestinianIsraeli conflict. Hip hop is providing an alternative to death at the hands of Israeli security forces, or as a result of impoverished conditions. Hip hop has become an effective way to share the Palestinians’ thoughts and hopes for the future of Palestine and its people. It provides Palestinians with the ability to offer a peaceful way to protest against the occupation of their land and the oppression of their people. It is this globalized, balanced perspective that serves as an existential threat to the character and value of the Israeli state. Palestinian hip hop has traveled beyond cultural and geographic boundaries. It provides a battle cry against suppression. It is the sound of inspiration and solidarity for those who use their music to articulate the change they want to occur. As these lyrics from DAM’s “Born Here ‘90” state: we just opened the window and saw reality. It motivated our anger and led us to take the mic and write these songs. They are dedicated to all those who haven’t found their window yet—their way out of political prisons, the social bars, the lies of the re-written history, the window that shows the way out of the refugee camps straight to the homelands.

References Daynes, Sarah. 2010. Time and Memory in Reggae Music: The Politics of Hope. Manchester: Manchester University Press. The Economist. January 13, 2011. “Violence Against Women: War’s Overlooked Victims.” The Economist. http://www.economist.com/node/17900482 (accessed February 23, 2014). Lee, Iara. July 27, 2010. “Hip Hop as Global Resistance.” Huffington Post. http:// huffingtonpost.com/iara-lee/hip-hop-as-global-resista_b_660608.html (accessed November 12, 2013). Malone, C. and G. Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45.

128

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

McDonald, David. 2009. “Poetics and the performance of violence in Israel/ Palestine.” Ethnomusicology 53(1): 58–85. Palestinian Monitor. December 31, 2012. “Factsheet: The Palestinian Non-Violent Resistance versus Israeli Occupation.” Palestine Telegraph. http://www. paltelegraph.com/opinions/editorials/10732-the-palestinian-non-violentresistance-vs-israeli-occupation.html (accessed November 27, 2013). Sunaina, Maira. 2008. Jil Oslo: Palestinian Hip Hop, Youth Culture, and the Youth Movement. Washington, DC: Tadween Publishing. Taipai Times. August 16, 2006. “Palestinian Youths Turn to Rap to Find their Voices.” Taipai Times. http://www.taipeitimes.com/News/lang/ archives/2006/08/16/2003323483 (accessed November 10, 2013). Yacobi, H. 2007. “From Urban Panopticism to Spatial Protest: The Case of the ‘Mixed Town’ of Lydda.” In D. Rabinowitz and D. Monterescu, eds, Mixed Towns, Trapped Communities: Historical Narratives, Spatial Dynamics, Gender Relations and Cultural Encounters in Ethnically Mixed Towns in Israel/Palestine, pp. 135–56. London: Ashgate.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Asserting identity through music Indigenous hip hop and self-empowerment Anne Flaherty

Editors’ note From Palestine in Chapter 7, we now move to Australia with Anne Flaherty’s work on the ways in which hip hop has been used by indigenous and marginalized peoples in developing alternative institutions in support of social and economic justice and political participation. We could not think of a more ideal example of the organic globalizer than the Indigenous Hip Hop Projects that Flaherty analyzes here. Her chapter calls to mind the distinct similarities between the Indigenous Hip Hop Projects (IHHP) and Project HIP HOP described by Kuttner and White-Hammond in Chapter 3. As Flaherty explains, “hip hop represents a medium through which they can express their culture and voices in a revolutionary way.” The connection between hip hop and the social, economic, and political marginalization of certain groups is crystallized by Flaherty: “Hip hop has offered a tool for expressing indigenous peoples’ world views as well as promoting positive messages for the communities in which it develops.” Flaherty concludes that IHHP in Australia is a template for other marginalized indigenous

130

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

communities. The message of education, healing, and empowerment is both localized and universal. In the context of the organic globalizer, they are also the building blocks for cultural awareness, social creation and institution building, and political participation—in the indigenous populations of Australia or, indeed, anywhere. ***

Introduction Indigenous peoples around the world have embraced hip hop as a mechanism for asserting their own cultural voice and seeking empowerment. Indigenous hip hop artists in Canada, the United States, New Zealand, and Australia (among many other countries) have taken part in this movement to adapt and create hip hop to meet their own particular needs and purposes. Hip hop, developed initially among African Americans and immigrant populations in the urban United States, has offered a voice for the marginalized and institutionally excluded. Indigenous peoples are among the most socially, economically, and politically marginalized groups around the world, often struggling to maintain connections to their own culture and history while being pushed by governments and dominant societies to assimilate. Hip hop as an art form offers many salient opportunities and has served as a tool for expressing indigenous people’s world-views as well as promoting positive messages for the communities in which it develops. This chapter focuses on hip hop as a mechanism for expression, community building, and social awareness in Australia. In particular, the research will highlight the work of Indigenous Hip Hop Projects, an organization that uses hip hop in workshops that promote social awareness and expression, community building, and positive social and health behavior.

Indigenous peoples and hip hop Hip hop is well suited as a means of expression and empowerment for indigenous peoples. The word “indigenous” has many levels of meaning, and it is explicitly used in this chapter in its political sense. Around the world, there are thousands of groups that identify as indigenous peoples. Indigenous peoples: are indigenous because their ancestral roots are embedded in the lands in which they live, or would like to live, much more deeply than the roots



Asserting identity through music

131

of more powerful sectors of society living on the same lands or in close proximity. Furthermore, they are peoples to the extent they comprise distinct communities with a continuity of existence and identity that links them to the communities, tribes, or nations of their ancestral past. (Anaya 2004: 3) A long-fought emphasis in international discussions has been the “s” at the end of “peoples,” which emphasizes the distinct nature of each of these entities even as they may share common experiences and goals. While each distinct community is unique, often they have been subject to similar histories of dispossession and exploitation by a (now) dominant settler population. In fact, many commonly invoked definitions of indigenous identity actually require this, including such language as “conquered” or “non-dominant” to define the population (Coates 1999). Malone and Martinez’s contention in Chapter 1 is that hip hop is a “global organizer,” a global phenomenon that is rooted in the context of the community in which it is developed. For marginalized peoples, hip hop represents a medium through which they can express their culture and voices in a revolutionary way. Artists and organizers have also used hip hop as part of mechanisms to develop alternative institutions to support social and economic justice, as well as to encourage political participation. For indigenous peoples, hip hop has been primarily utilized as a means of expression and self-assertion. In some cases, hip hop art and music are also being used in innovative, creative, and inspiring ways to educate and encourage social justice. The idea that hip hop is a grassroots medium of expression is particularly suited to indigenous peoples, whose identities are so intimately centered in culture that is connected to a particular geographic and spiritual place. There is also a common experience in asserting a larger political identity as part of the indigenous population of a specific state. In other words, an indigenous artist may identify as part of a specific local community, a larger cultural group, and as part of all of the indigenous peoples within a specific state. There are also growing connections with indigenous peoples and minority populations globally. Many indigenous artists assert and utilize these multiple layers of identity in their work. Malone and Martinez assert that: “Hip-hop possesses an organic quality which creates a space for addressing social and political issues at the local level. On the other hand, hip-hop’s global appeal presents interesting possibilities that transcend geographical and cultural boundaries” (2010: 532; see also Chapter 1). This is a natural match for indigenous peoples, which are local in nearly every possible sense (culturally, historically, spiritually, linguistically, politically, etc.) but are also part of national movements and a global indigenous movement. Further, hip hop has served as a means of expression primarily for groups that are historically marginalized and outside of traditional

132

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

political, institutional access to power. Indigenous peoples have historically suffered extreme marginalization, and in many cases still do. Indigenous peoples the world over have proven to be resilient and positive, despite this history. The attempts of settler and conquering populations seeking to assimilate or eradicate indigenous people largely did not succeed, and indigenous identities, cultures, and traditions persist. As part of this survival, indigenous peoples have used many different means of asserting their identity and promoting self-empowerment on their own terms. Today, some indigenous peoples and activists are using various art forms, such as hip hop, to develop organizations and activities to support positive community goals. This chapter explores the role of hip hop as a means of “social creation and institutionalization…marked by the development of independent alternative institutions and non-profit organizations in civil society geared toward social and economic justice” (Malone and Martinez 2010: 532; see also Chapter 1). The chapter offers specific examples of how indigenous peoples and activists have incorporated hip hop in the pursuit of social justice.

Hip hop for indigenous justice Indigenous peoples around the world often face high rates of poverty, unemployment, and accompanying problems such as domestic violence, substance abuse, and incarceration. The same concerns that faced African Americans and immigrants in New York at the birth of hip hop are very familiar to indigenous peoples. Hip hop has been utilized as a mechanism for expression, as an attempt to spread knowledge and information about the situation that confronts many indigenous peoples. This reflects, in part, Malone and Martinez’s assertion that “Through the four elements of hip-hop (breakin’, graffiti, DJ’in’ and MC’in’), young people found vehicles to create a reference point of knowledge…” (2010: 536; see also Chapter 1). By expressing a particular indigenous reality, indigenous hip hop asserts identity and survival through self-expression. It also rejects the idea that this expression of indigenous ideas and experience has to come in certain, sanctioned, or traditional ways. Indigenous hip hop can reflect both modern realities and traditional values and has served as a mechanism for youth in particular to offer their perspectives and voices on their experiences. By the 1980s and early 1990s indigenous peoples, particularly in former British colonies with close ties to the United States (such as Native Americans, Canadian First Nations, Australian Aborigines, and Maori in New Zealand), began to experiment with hip hop as music, an art form, and a lifestyle (see, for example, Ignace 2011; Maxwell 2003; Mitchell 2001a; Ullestad 1999). This incorporation of hip hop became part of a



Asserting identity through music

133

long history of music as a means of expression of protest in the face of injustice. Just as hip hop was taken and organically altered to reflect indigenous culture, other forms of music have also been adapted by indigenous artists. In the 1960s era of protest and folk music in the United States, for example, Buffy Sainte-Marie and Floyd Red Crow Westerman created new expressions of indigenous protest music (Vosen 2013). Just as all hip hop artists and/or music in any cultural or geographical space are not necessarily positive in their assorted messages, the same is true of indigenous people’s use of hip hop. Significant numbers of artists generate hip hop that glorifies the very things that plague their communities, such as sexism, substance abuse, and crime. Others focus on anger, rage, and real or imagined revenge on those perceived as enemies. This is indeed a reflection of their reality, and an argument could be made for this music as a form of self-empowerment, but it would be challenging to argue that this sort of work is part of promoting social justice. Instead, this chapter focuses on the subset of indigenous hip hop that is focused on social justice and empowerment in a positive sense. Readers interested in seeing some of the range of indigenous hip hop (with a focus on North America) might be interested in Native Hip-Hop (www.nativehiphop.net), a video depository that is regularly updated. To get a sense of the breadth of indigenous music culture, including and beyond hip hop, readers can also visit the website for Revolutions Per Minute (rpm.fm), which offers a very wide range of music and commentary. Hip hop artists and groups have used their music and art in many ways to promote indigenous expression and healing. Hip hop can be used as a mechanism for education and community building as well as being seen as a product of these activities with a value of its own (in all of its four classic dimensions—break dancing, graffiti, DJ-ing, and MC-ing). Social activists have created workshops and teaching activities where participants—often youth—create and practice hip hop to encourage social ties, positive behaviors, and empowerment in terms of building their skills of self-expression. Many communities have used hip hop as a means of therapy and to promote positive messages and behaviors. There is a body of literature looking at the broader possibilities for hip hop as supporting social and economic justice, particularly for youth. Tyson (2002) proposed that the popularity and familiarity of rap and hip hop meant that it could be used—in certain conditions—as therapy to promote better outcomes. Other researchers, such as Wilkins (1999), argue that the use of hip hop allows youth to express and understand experiences that are reflective of their own lives. These propositions have been borne out by various activities of indigenous artists, educators, and activists who have used hip hop as a tool to promote self-expression, self-empowerment, and better health (for individuals and the community) in a variety of ways. In a beautiful

134

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

academic and personal reflection on the positive role that hip hop as art can take on in an indigenous community in Canada, Marianne Ignace discusses how graffiti art has helped youth from a rural reserve work through their grief and anger at several deaths, including that of another young person. Ignace writes that: In recent years, numerous ethnographers have shown the increasing ways in which hip-hop graffiti art and music as contemporary phenomenon of globalized yet local cultural markets have been appropriated by young people from multiple ethnic backgrounds on different continents. These studies show how artists weave the functions and messages of hip-hop music as art of resistance into very localized messages shaped by their particular histories meanings, languages and experiences. (Ignace 2011: 204) Another example of the intersection of art, education, and social justice is the Canadian hip hop artist Shibastik (Chris Sutherland), who uses hip hop music and art to explore and promote traditional values and ideas as a member of the Moose Cree First Nation and the Bear Clan. He has been extensively involved in working with at-risk youth, particularly in detention centers. He has also developed workshops specifically to support healing through hip hop (Shibastik (Facebook)). His song and video “Hand Drum” (which can be found on YouTube) provide an excellent example of how traditional sounds, images, and ideas can be incorporated into a positive message expressed via hip hop. The remainder of the chapter first offers a brief overview of the history of indigenous peoples in Australia and then turns to a consideration of a particular organization, Indigenous Hip Hop Projects (IHHP), which has been working with indigenous communities in Australia for many years. IHHP uses hip hop to promote expression, self-empowerment, and positive health outcomes among aboriginal youth. The workshops run by IHHP and their outcomes have been studied and showcased by researchers and media, offering some evidence and a broader perspective on how hip hop can have lasting effects in promoting positive social outcomes and contributing to social justice. The chapter first looks specifically at the experience of Australia’s indigenous population, commonly known as Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders (shortened to “Aborigines” and “aboriginal” in this work), before turning to a more detailed assessment of IHHP.



Asserting identity through music

135

A very brief history of indigenous Australia Indigenous peoples around the world often face both modern discrimination and histories of dispossession and disempowerment, and continue to seek respect, recognition, and the ability to control their own lives and communities. This has been a particularly poignant struggle in Australia, where the various indigenous peoples faced a brutal history of dispossession and attempted extermination by colonial and settler societies. Indigenous people’s history in colonial and post-colonial Australia has been shadowed by the British doctrine of terra nullius, established in the eighteenth century, which declared the land formally uninhabited and denied the basic personhood—much less the rights or equality—of the indigenous population (Reynolds 1999). This approach, which would have profound implications for the future of the aboriginal population, was very different from that in other British colonies such as the United States. In “conquered” countries where the British recognized pre-existing sovereign entities, the native title of indigenous inhabitants was recognized and British law had to be explicitly introduced by either the Crown or legislative action (Brookfield 1999: 50). Early explorers and settlers did encounter some indigenous peoples when they first arrived in Australia. Even on the fertile east coast of the largely arid continent, however, European settlers encountered an indigenous population that was widely scattered, mobile, and did not have formal political institutions or boundaries. Rather than attempting to develop a formal political or treaty relationship with this native population, the British government found it more politically expedient to ignore them. Early information on the indigenous populations at the time of European settlement is therefore scarce and highly uncertain. While there are varying estimates of how many indigenous peoples were in Australia at the time of British contact and settlement after 1788, the range converges somewhere between 250,000 and 500,000.1 This population was made up of a variety of linguistically and culturally distinct groups, with somewhere between 500 and 900 separate groups, each having territories and specific use rights (Hinchman and Hinchman 1998; Jones 1970). Regardless of the accepted number for the aboriginal population, there is little doubt that it was more than decimated during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by disease, loss of resources, and violence from the colonial power. It is estimated that the lowest point of population was around 73,000 in the mid-1930s (Vamplew 1987). The range of estimates

Estimates for the numbers of indigenous peoples in Australia at the time of contact vary from 250,000 (Jones 1970) to 350,000 (Vamplew 1987) to 500,000 (Hinchman and Hinchman 1998). 1

136

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

(and ongoing lack of certainty in estimates of the indigenous population in Australia) can be partially attributed to the delayed lack of contact in some regions combined with the fact that the British and later Australian governments did not consider aboriginal people as “people” and often did not officially count them. Even when a head count was conducted, the government had a strong incentive to under represent any indigenous population until their declaration as citizens in 1967. In 1887 Australia was declared a Crown Colony, and in 1901 granted independence as a separate Commonwealth country. Neither of these transitions brought any changes in the treatment of indigenous peoples. The wording of the 1887 declaration reasserted terra nullius. The declaration officially stated that the colony was “practically unoccupied without settled inhabitants or settled law” (Hinchman and Hinchman 1998: 29–30). The nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were characterized by policies that included forced removals, state education programs, and ongoing attempts at the extermination of aboriginal existence. The Australian government had no formal legal or political obligations to provide any services for the aboriginal people. The earliest social reforms came from (white) social activists who were focused on assimilation—they felt that if aboriginal people could become more “white” and leave behind their traditional culture, they could be accorded basic rights. Native welfare boards were established between 1900 and the 1920s to “help” the Aborigines through the distribution of food and social services. The boards were also responsible for programs that forcibly removed “half-caste” children (those of mixed ancestry) from their homes in order to re-educate them and take them away from the influence of aboriginal group life and society. The process continued even into the 1960s and early 1970s (Havemann 1999; Short 2003). Recent government inquiries estimate that about 30,000 children were taken from their families, although other sources put the number far higher. These social programs totally rejected the value (or existence) of aboriginal culture or traditions. After decades of denial, the Australian government finally acknowledged and apologized for the treatment of the lost generation in February 2008, when a public apology was one of the first acts of Prime Minister Kevin Rudd (Welch 2008). The international conflict of World War II raised the awareness of elites to the rights of minority groups internationally. As global concern with respect for sovereignty and self-determination grew, the Australian government sought to distinguish itself and distance its treatment of the aboriginal population from the Nazi regime’s abuse of Jewish and other European minorities. This potential comparison led to the concern of Australian officials that the lack of rights, extreme poverty, failure of assimilation, and isolation of its aboriginal population could become an international embarrassment (Short 2003). Small steps, such as allowing



Asserting identity through music

137

veterans (1949) and those with less than one quarter indigenous blood to vote (in 1954), came in this era (Australian Electoral Commission 2006; Havemann 1999). Still, the clear message was that those who were “least” indigenous and “most” (white) Australian in blood or behavior were the ones deserving of basic recognition. Aboriginal peoples began to organize and protest against the lack of recognition during the same time period. Actions were generally localized, given groups’ isolation. Strikes and protests, such as a 1946 strike in Pilbara and a 1951 strike in Darwin, sought to bring attention to poor working conditions and other concerns. These actions only had limited results, as the lack of inclusion on most dimensions of basic legal and political rights offered the Australian government little incentive to respond (Scholtz 2006). Urban migrations throughout the twentieth century began to bring together a sense of pan-aboriginality and connections that would later aid indigenous peoples in their political activism. The growth of urban pan- aboriginal connections and activism, increasing media coverage of issues of minority rights (both nationally and internationally), the inspiration and support of other civil rights efforts throughout the world, and an increase in attention from established political parties and actors created an environment of change beginning in the 1960s. In 1961 the federal government created a Commonwealth Parliamentary Committee to research indigenous voting rights. It recommended that all Aborigines be extended the right to vote in federal elections and the 1962 Commonwealth Electoral Act did so. State voting rights also quickly caught up with federal voting rights; Queensland was the last to extend the vote to the indigenous in 1965 (Australian Electoral Commission 2006). The changes in electoral rights were accompanied by a shift in terms of other citizenship rights. A 1967 referendum passed by over 90 percent of the voting population supported the inclusion of aboriginal peoples in the census, which would allow them full access to citizenship rights such as federal support and services (Reilly 2000). The referendum guaranteed equal treatment under all state and federal laws and allowed for federal oversight of indigenous peoples and programs. Unfortunately, as has been the case for many minority populations around the world, legal equality did not quickly translate into political, social, or economic equality for most indigenous peoples in Australia. Spurred in part by the national trends signaled by the support of indigenous people’s citizenship status in the 1967 referendum, the Australian Labor Party adopted progressive policies in support of aboriginal rights beginning in the late 1960s and early 1970s. In 1972 a widely publicized “Tent Embassy” was set up in Canberra as a protest against the lack of recognition of aboriginal rights, particularly rights to traditional lands (Short 2003). A key event for indigenous activism was the Embassy’s recognition by the head of the opposition (Labor) party, Gough Whitlam, who

138

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

promised to support aboriginal land rights (Chesterman and Galligan 1997: 195). Tied to this promise, Labor’s 1972 election platform specifically addressed and supported aboriginal self-determination. When the Labor Party won the majority, the new government under Whitlam established the Aboriginal Land Rights Commission to investigate indigenous needs. While the Labor Party lost power in 1975 to a Liberal coalition government led by Malcolm Fraser, the new government followed through with some of the Commission’s recommendations and passed weak versions of the (Laborsponsored) Racial Discrimination Act (1975) and Aboriginal Land Rights Act (1976) (Franklin 2007; Reynolds 1999). The Labor Party came back to power for an extended period from 1983 to 1996 with the governments of Bob Hawke and Paul Keating. A commitment to indigenous people’s rights remained a part of Labor’s platform. Several major events in support of indigenous rights and in moving toward a reconciliation process took place during their combined administrations. Toward the end of his Administration Hawke did scale back the commitment to indigenous rights, arguing that public sentiment had become less sympathetic toward aboriginal affairs than in the late 1960s and 1970s (Magallanes 1999: 247). State government reluctance to support indigenous rights was another factor, and the party abandoned a plan for a national land rights policy during the late 1980s (Havemann 1999). When the Labor Party returned to power under Keating’s leadership (1991–6), there was renewed attention to indigenous issues. Changing administrations in Australia have continued to bring national policy “mood swings” toward indigenous rights based on administration and party preferences (Fletcher 1999: 336–7). Key statements of leaders illustrate this. In a 1992 address in Redfern (an aboriginal neighborhood in Sydney), Labor Party leader Paul Keating expressed great remorse for the treatment of the indigenous population, stating, “it was we who did the dispossessing. We took the traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the diseases. The alcohol. We committed the murders” (Fletcher 1999: 336). This stands in stark contrast to a statement of Keating’s successor, Liberal-National leader John Howard in 1996: Now, of course, we treated Aborigines very, very badly in the past— very, very badly—but to tell children whose parents were no part of that maltreatment, to tell children who themselves had been no part of it, that we’re all part of a, sort of, a racist bigoted history, is something that Australians reject. (Fletcher 1999: 336) Political stands and “swings” aside, overall statistics show many enduring effects of the history of discrimination on the aboriginal population. Median household incomes for indigenous households are 65 percent of



Asserting identity through music

139

non-indigenous households (Australian Council of Social Service 2013). Generally speaking, Aborigines face higher rates of poverty, unemployment, substance abuse, domestic violence, and many other social problems. The fact that many Aborigines live in remote, very isolated rural areas also means that their access to health services is limited. Combined with the myriad other problems, this created a situation where even some very basic statistics reveal a startling distinction between aboriginal and white populations. “The gap between Indigenous and non-Indigenous life-expectancy at birth is 12 years for males and 10 years for females. Mortality rates for Indigenous infants and young children remain 2–3 times higher than for all infants and young children” in Australia (Australian Council of Social Service 2013). Aboriginal communities are today still facing the effects of a history of inequality and discrimination and are seeking ways both to improve their health and future and to maintain connections to their culture and traditions. The history offered above, while brief, reflects some of the realities of aboriginal political, social, and economic dynamics in Australia. There are many culturally distinct groups of aboriginal peoples in Australia with strong traditions and identities, although they are connected by a common history and political treatment by the colonial and Australian governments. There are far-flung indigenous communities and urban populations. Individuals and groups face different challenges, but from a distance the average statistics are stark and show a disadvantaged, still marginalized population. Indigenous Australians have been resilient and creative in asserting and maintaining their identity/identities and pressing for social justice. The growth of hip hop as a form of art and expression offered a natural opportunity for aboriginal Australian artists and activists to incorporate a new art form.

Hip hop in Australia and the indigenous hip hop projects Hip hop came to Australia during the early 1980s and emerged as a form of music and ultimately a way of life for those who felt themselves to be outsiders and in a similar situation to African Americans in the urban United States—marginalized and outside of the mainstream. Ian Maxwell’s work explores how hip hop grew through immigrant and working-class populations living in the western suburbs of Sydney. Maxwell’s work is focused on the growth and meaning of the broad (non-indigenous) hip hop movement in Australia, and only offers a brief mention of two female aboriginal groups that began to perform hip hop early in the 1990s (Maxwell 2003). Tony Mitchell, a scholar of hip hop, does call Maxwell to task for his failure to address aboriginal hip hop outside of this brief example (in

140

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

which he reportedly spelled the groups’ names improperly) (2006: 124). In his own work, Mitchell cites the significance of aboriginal artists in Redfern (an aboriginal neighborhood in Sydney) and offers interviews and commentary that connect the origins of hip hop in Australia in the aboriginal community to the very early 1980s (2006: 125). Mitchell is emphatic that aboriginal hip hop came with an uplifting message and purpose. He argues that aboriginal hip hop and artists have been a strong positive force in Australia, providing “important voices and vehicles of selfexpression for disenfranchised and disadvantaged young people...” as well as “a means of retrieving and giving public voice to indigenous languages, history and cultural forms” (2006: 127). As an example, he discusses a group of early artists (MunkiMark, Brotha Black, and Morganics) who organized a three-week “Desert Rap” workshop in Alice Springs in 1999. This initial workshop led to further workshops, all with the purpose of encouraging aboriginal youth to find their own voices and expression through rap and hip hop (Mitchell 2006: 127). Other (non-indigenous) groups have also experimented with hip hop as an educational and motivational tool in Australia. Recognizing that hip hop is engaging, fun, and appealing to youth, an initiative in Queensland sought to engage disadvantaged youth in an after-school hip hop program to promote better social outcomes, healthy activities, and stronger social ties. The results of the four-year project, Hip-Hop=Healthy (HYPE), in Logan, Queensland offered strong evidence that an ongoing break dancing workshop helped promote positive behaviors, better health outcomes, more social capacity, and resilience among disadvantaged youth (Harris et al. 2011). There is the recognition among a variety of educators and organizations of the potential of hip hop to reach youth and support self-empowerment. The Desert Rap workshop was likely the first to use hip hop to promote self-expression and positive outcomes specifically for aboriginal youth. As hip hop’s reach grew, more organizations using the art of hip hop as a means of promoting social justice and healthy behaviors in aboriginal communities developed. Indigenous IHHP was created in 2007 by hip hop artists who had begun working in aboriginal communities in 2005. IHHP “works on the principal [sic] of using the ‘arts for change’, focusing on Indigenous young people’s strengths, developing their skills and attitudes and working closely with partners to support community development.” Further, IHHP specifically recognizes that “programs need to support the development of physical, social and emotional wellbeing” (Indigenous Hip Hop Projects; Indigenous Hip Hop Projects (Facebook)). IHHP artists “use traditional indigenous culture fused with hip-hop, rap, beat boxing and break dancing to foster positive thinking and leadership skills in remote Australian communities. They promote self-expression through movement, music and art, boosting morale and confidence” (Katitjin 2009: 6).



Asserting identity through music

141

IHHP is very active as an organization. According to their website, as of January 2014, they have worked in every state and territory, with over 200,000 participants. There are over 45 professional artists employed by IHHP from a range of cultural backgrounds. On average “IHHP delivers over 55 week-long projects, performs at over 30 festivals, conferences and events and facilitates at least 1 National Youth Leadership Camp and 1 Artists’ Camp” annually (Indigenous Hip Hop Projects). This extensive work allows IHHP to reach many indigenous people and communities. Each workshop is tailored specifically to the needs of the community involved. Generally, IHHP makes an arrangement with a community based on their specific interests in a program. Team sizes vary depending on the project, but are generally three to five members. Each team always includes at least one indigenous member and at least one female member (Katitjin 2009: 5). The goal of IHHP is to address the disadvantages faced by indigenous youth through supporting social and emotional well-being, and using hip hop to give “young Indigenous people and their communities a voice to not only let their issues be heard but” also to empower “them to find their own solutions” (Indigenous Hip Hop Projects). The projects seek to contribute to the well-being of the whole community by supporting individuals and giving them tools of empowerment and expression, and also by seeking to build morale and connections among the community as a whole (Katitjin 2009: 6). IHHP projects work on multiple levels to promote social justice: they seek to empower individuals to make healthier and more informed choices; they offer a means of strengthening self-esteem and offering means of self-empowerment and expression; the projects seek to improve community health and outcomes via individual education and discussion; and they promote stronger community ties and communication. The IHHP website (http://indigenoushiphop.com) and their YouTube channel (http://www.youtube.com/user/indhiphop?feature=watch) might offer the best way to experience and appreciate some of the work that they do, and readers are highly encouraged to visit, listen, and explore. Visitors to the website can navigate among the different tabs to get a sense of the mission of the organization and how it is put into action. Videos produced through IHHP projects showcase the quality of the organization’s work, the integration of many different art forms and styles, and the joy and engagement of the youth participating in them. Not only does IHHP offer mechanisms for better social and economic outcomes, it also allows indigenous youth to create impressive music and art and share it with others. Research projects have documented the effectiveness of IHHP. Kurongkurl Katitjin conducted a research study on a joint initiative between IHHP and beyondblue, an organization devoted to researching and raising awareness about depression, anxiety, and related mental health issues. IHHP conducted a series of projects in Western Australia to promote active, healthy lifestyles

142

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

and offer education on depression and anxiety (Katitjin 2009: 5). Mental health has been a particular area of concern for the indigenous population in Western Australia. Aboriginal youth face particularly dire statistics and problems in their daily life; more than 30 percent are reported to be at high risk of significant conduct problems and hyperactivity (compared to 16 percent of non-aboriginal); around 15 percent of children ages 4–17 are reported to be in households in which overuse of alcohol caused problems; 41 percent of indigenous households in remote areas reported violence in the home; and 17 percent of individuals reported some form of sexual assault (Katitjin 2009: 20–1). These dynamics, combined with a lack of social services and potentially poor access to health care, contribute to high rates of depression and high rates of self-harm and suicide in aboriginal communities (Katitjin 2009: 23). Katitjin’s research, supported by a grant from beyondblue, tracked the success of the IHHP workshops in conveying information and offering a positive experience. Results were assessed through questionnaires, interviews, and focus groups. The research found that, generally, many youth who participated were able to recall the workshop messages (related to depression and self-respect, signs of depression in others, and how to seek help) six months after the workshops (Katitjin 2009: 8). Further, the research found that there was evidence that the workshops had promoted self-esteem and positive feelings. Youth felt positive attention and selfworth through community recognition of their music, which included airtime on the radio, the use of music as ringtones, and general awareness (Katitjin 2009: 12). The workshops promoted social justice by promoting better mental health and outcomes for all, as well as offering tools to build self-empowerment and self-expression. It is worth noting that the research makes note that the use of non-traditional music and art (hip hop) being used to support traditional values and communities can sometimes cause concern. Katitjin writes: In some areas, mention was made of some parents and Elders having some concern over the use of “Hip Hop” as a medium. Where this was raised, it was noted as a question generally rather than being specific to IHHP. Additionally, field observations and responses in the interviews and questionnaires suggest that IHHP provides a positive experience for young people, and importantly a medium that allows young people to express themselves. (Katitjin 2009: 11) IHHP develops each project based on the needs and interests of the community they are working with. This allows them to meet the local needs of each population, even as it is part of a larger effort to promote indigenous well-being and outcomes in Australia as a whole. This specialization can



Asserting identity through music

143

be seen in another research study done on an IHHP project. This follow-up research study was conducted after the Torres Indigenous Hip Hop Project in the northern part of Queensland. This workshop, conducted in 2010, was aimed at sexual health and well-being. The researchers found that the workshop was successful at engaging the community on the issue, and helped raise awareness of sexual health problems and related disadvantages (McEwan et al. 2013). Again, these workshops offer better outcomes for the health of the community, in terms of reducing and managing sexually transmitted diseases and unplanned pregnancies, as well as for individuals. Positive impacts would include better education, better health, and better social and economic situations—for individuals, households, and the entire community. IHHP’s work continues to support better physical, mental, and communal health in indigenous communities across a broad range of issues. They have raised awareness of issues not only within indigenous communities but also across Australia as a whole. IHHP has gotten media attention in local as well as mainstream and nationwide press. The Australian Broadcasting Corporation news, for example, has offered several stories on IHHP projects and events (Fletcher 2009; Gibson 2013; Hague 2011). The promotion of social justice and positive outcomes spreads in this way, and reflects the idea that hip hop, while reflecting and rooted in local reality, can tie into broader movements and change.

The future of indigenous hip hop Indigenous hip hop, like many genres of indigenous music, can serve a range of functions and uses, including as a “statement of identity” and a marker of physical, cultural, and spiritual survival (Dunbar-Hall 2006: 120–1). Hip hop has also become an important mechanism for promoting better social and economic outcomes and connecting to youth. This chapter offers the work of IHHP and aboriginal hip hop as an example of the phase of hip hop defined by Malone and Martinez as “social creation and institutionalization” and the promotion of social justice (Malone and Martinez 2010: 532; see also Chapter 1). In fact, indigenous hip hop may be particularly well suited to this work. “Unique to indigenous protest music—throughout the world—is the intensity of the drive toward protecting and strengthening young people” (Vosen 2013: 272). This is readily apparent in the work of IHHP. Just as African American hip hop was initially outside of the mainstream and unrecognized, most indigenous hip hop goes largely unrecognized outside of its own community or local area. In this sense, indigenous music and indigenous hip hop has been limited as “social realism in a local

144

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

media environment that lacks public space to assert numerous perspectives” (Teves 2011: 75). Limited airtime and market pressures make it hard to reach a mainstream (non-indigenous) audience (Dunbar-Hall 2006; Mitchell 2001a). There is some evidence that IHHP’s work and the hip hop songs and videos produced have the potential for broader exposure through at least limited attention in the mainstream press. The growth of more open technologies, such as internet-based resources like YouTube, may also advantage IHHP and the work of their participants. Of course, if the goal is to promote social justice, education, and better individual community and health outcomes, broader playtime and press is far from the primary objective of the projects supported by IHHP. While wider press and playtime might support the goals of IHHP, the lack does not appear to hinder its success at all. An interesting development in Australia is the growth of formal support for aboriginal artists. In December 2013, for example, the Australia Council for the Arts celebrated its 6th Annual Indigenous Arts Awards in Sydney, which recognizes a range of artists (from musicians to writers) with cash awards and fellowships. There are also organizations such as the Central Australian Aboriginal Media Association, which specifically seek to support and produce work by indigenous artists that supports positive and educational messages, native languages, and traditional cultural practice (Dunbar-Hall 2006: 128). Financial and technical support from formal bodies such as these can augment the ability of aboriginal artists to create and disseminate music as a tool for better physical and psychological health and community wellness and resilience (Barney and Solomon 2011). This has the potential to give aboriginal hip hop more support as a community building and valuable tool, even if it is not commercially viable. Many other countries also have groups that specifically recognize indigenous artists, whether through government-based or community-based programs. Many of these have specific categories or supports for hip hop, recognizing the value and validity of the genre of indigenous hip hop. At its core, indigenous hip hop is a form of self-expression and authenticity. It is the assertion that indigenous artists and indigenous peoples exist, and that they can adapt to new tools and expressions while maintaining their own identity, culture, and tradition—all on their own terms. The value of using hip hop for positive social outcomes is illustrated by organizations such as IHHP and their work. The use of indigenous hip hop to promote positive social and economic outcomes, as well as serving as a means of selfexpression and empowerment (both individual and community), is beginning to get broader attention. There is potential for indigenous hip hop to move out of the localized context and bring greater recognition and respect from those outside of indigenous communities. As the discussion presented in this chapter shows, indigenous hip hop is a powerful and effective way to bring education, healing, and empowerment to indigenous communities.



Asserting identity through music

145

References Anaya, S. J. 2004. Indigenous Peoples in International Law (2nd edn). New York: Oxford University Press. Australia Council. “Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts.” http://www. australiacouncil.gov.au/artforms/aboriginal-and-torres-strait-islander-arts (accessed January 20, 2014). Australian Council of Social Service. 2013. “Indigenous.” http://www.acoss.org. au/policy/indigenous/ (accessed January 12, 2014). Australian Electoral Commission. 2006. History of the Indigenous Vote. Kingston, ACT: National Capital Printers. Barney, K. and L. Solomon. 2011. “Songs for Survival: Exploring Resilience and Resistance in the Contemporary Songs of Indigenous Australian Women.” In A. Brade, ed., Songs of Resilience, pp. 49–72. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Brookfield, F. M. 1999. Waitangi and Indigenous Rights: Revolution, Law, and Legitimation. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Chesterman, J. and B. Galligan. 1997. Citizens Without Rights: Aborigines and Australian Citizenship. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Coates, K. 1999. “The ‘Gentle’ Occupation: The Settlement of Canada and Dispossession of the First Nations.” In P. Havemann, ed., Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, pp. 141–61. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Dunbar-Hall, P. 2006. “‘We Have Survived:’ Popular Music as a Representation of Australian Aboriginal Cultural Loss and Reclamation.” In I. Peddie, ed., The Resisting Muse: Popular Music and Social Protest, pp. 119–31. Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Fletcher, C. 1999. “Living Together but not Neighbors: Cultural Imperialism in Australia.” In P. Havemann, ed., Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, pp. 335–50. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Fletcher, S. March 31, 2009. “Indigenous Hip Hop Project.” ABC Central Victoria. http://www.abc.net.au/local/photos/2009/03/31/2530716.htm (accessed January 12, 2014). Franklin, M. January 1, 2007. “NT Opposed Canberra on Native Land Rights.” Australian. Gibson, J. April 26, 2013. “The Healing Sounds of Indigenous Hip Hop.” ABC News. http://www.abc.net.au/news/2013-04-26/the-healing-sounds-ofindigenous-hip-hop/4654602 (accessed January 12, 2014). Hague, C. July 8, 2011. “Indigenous Hip Hop Projects Offer Hope Across Australia.” ABC Central Victoria. http://www.abc.net.au/local/ videos/2010/03/29/2858662.htm (accessed January 12, 2014). Harris, N., L. Wilks, D. Stewart, V. Gopinath, and S. MacCubbin. 2011. “Street Dance and Adolescent Wellbeing: Using Hip-Hop to Promote Resilience in Youth.” In A. Brade, ed., Songs of Resilience, pp. 73–93. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Havemann, P. 1999. Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand. Melbourne: Oxford University Press.

146

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Hinchman, L. P. and S. K. Hinchman. 1998. “Australia’s judicial revolution: aboriginal land rights and the transformation of liberalism.” Polity 31(1): 23–51. Ignace, M. 2011. “Why Is My People Sleeping? First Nations Hip Hop Between the Rez and the City.” In H. A. Howard and C. Proulx, eds, Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities, pp. 203–26. Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Indigenous Hip Hop Projects. http://indigenoushiphop.com (accessed January 2, 2014). Indigenous Hip Hop Projects (Facebook). https://www.facebook.com/ Indigenoushiphopprojects/info (accessed January 2, 2014). Jones, F. L. 1970. The Structure and Growth of Australia’s Aboriginal Population. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Katitjin, K. 2009. “Evaluation of Indigenous Hip Hop Projects.” On “beyondblue: The National Depression Initiative.” https://www.beyondblue.org.au/docs/ default-source/research-project-files/bw0171.pdf?sfvrsn=2 (accessed January 2, 2014). Magallanes, C. J. I. 1999. “International Human Rights and Their Impact on Domestic Law on Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand.” In P. Havemann, ed., Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, pp. 235–76. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Malone, C. and G. Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45. Maxwell, I. 2003. Phat Beats, Dope Rhymes: Hip Hop Down Under Comin Upper. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. McEwan, A., A. Crouch, H. Robertson, and P. Fagan. 2013. “The Torres indigenous hip hop project: evaluating the use of performing arts as a medium for sexual health promotion.” Health Promotion Journal of Australia 24(2): 132–6. Mitchell, T. 2001a. “Kia Kaha! (Be Strong): Maori and Pacific Islander Hip-Hop in Aotearoa-New Zealand.” In T. Mitchell, ed., Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA, pp. 280–305. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. —2001b. “Introduction: Another Root—Hip Hop Outside the US.” In T. Mitchell, ed., Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA, pp. 1–38. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. —2006. “Blackfellas rapping, breaking and writing: a short history of aboriginal hip hop.” Aboriginal History 30: 124–37. Native Hip Hop. nativehiphop.net (accessed December 13, 2013). Reilly, A. 2000. “Land rights for disenfranchised and dispossessed peoples in Australia and South Africa.” University of Queensland Law Journal 21(1): 23–42. Revolutions Per Minute: Indigenous Music Culture (rpm.fm) (accessed December 14, 2013). Reynolds, H. 1999. “New Frontiers: Australia.” In P. Havemann, ed., Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand, pp. 129–40. Melbourne: Oxford University Press.



Asserting identity through music

147

Scholtz, C. 2006. Negotiating Claims: The Emergence of Indigenous Land Claim Negotiation Policies in Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and the United States. New York: Routledge Press. Shibastik (Facebook). https://www.facebook.com/Shibastik/info (accessed January 2, 2014). Short, D. 2003. “Reconciliation, assimilation, and the indigenous peoples of Australia.” International Political Science Review 24(4): 491–513. Teves, S. N. 2011. “Bloodline is all I need: defiant indigeneity and Hawaiian hip-hop.” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 35(4): 73–101. Tillie Allen, N. M. 2005. “Exploring hip hop therapy with high-risk youth.” Praxis 5: 30–6. Tyson, E. H. 2002. “Hip hop therapy: an exploratory study of a rap music intervention with at-risk and delinquent youth.” Journal of Poetry Therapy 15(3): 131–44. Ullestad, N. 1999. “American Indian rap and reggae: dancing ‘to the beat of a different drummer.’” Popular Music and Society 23(2): 62–90. Vamplew, W. 1987. Australians: Historical Statistics. Broadway, NSW: Fairfax, Syme, and Weldon Associates. Vosen, E. C. 2013. “‘We Need More than Love’: Three Generations of North American Indigenous Protest Singers.” In J. C. Friedman, ed., The Routledge History of Social Protest in Popular Music, pp. 263–78. New York: Routledge. Welch, D. February 13, 2008. “Kevin Rudd Says Sorry.” Sydney Morning Herald. Wilkins, N. 1999. “Hip-hop generation/youth in high–risk environments.” Journal of Parks and Recreation Administration 17(2): 107–12.

CHAPTER NINE

Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness Between branding banality and authenticity in Central European rap Barbara Franz

Editors’ note In this chapter, Barbara Franz responds to our concept of the organic globalizer by providing a detailed analysis of the development of hip hop in Central Europe. Franz’s mastery of the hip hop scene in Central Europe is evident; but she also provides readers less familiar with European hip hop with a cogent comparison to its American counterpart. Rather than having its origins in poor, marginalized communities as it did in the United States, Franz argues that hip hop in Central Europe began as a largely white, homogenized, commercialized, middle-class phenomenon in Germany, Austria, and other central European countries. It was only later that more localized subgenres of hip hop appeared, emanating from communities on the edge of mainstream central European culture. If the organic quality of hip hop predated commercialized rap in the United States, the reverse seems to be the case in Central Europe: it took time for

150

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

marginalized communities to find their voice through hip hop. But as she explains in her conclusion: Hip-hop in Central Europe…is defined by the second- and third-generation immigration youth, children and grandchildren of the original Turkish and Yugoslav guest workers and other immigrant cohorts. Turning rap into a method of socio-political protest and expression and a way of life, these young people use art to attempt to authenticate and validate their existence between immigrant roots and mainstream society. Those more acquainted with hip hop in the United States will recognize where Franz ultimately winds up in her findings: hip hop in Central Europe is undergoing an internal struggle between homogenized, commercial rap and its more localized subgenre counterparts geared toward social and political justice. ***

Introduction “I ignite the bomb in the center of the crowd” announces the German jihadist and former rapper Denis Cuspert in his new song “Abu al Almani” (“I’m Waiting for Death”). In August 2013, the Berlin-born son of a German mother and a Ghanaian father, Cuspert, alias Deso Dogg, who now calls himself Abu Talha al-Alman, published another song, this time from Syria. Apparently Cuspert has been fighting on the side of radical Islamists in the Syrian civil war. In this Nascheed, which is a religiously inspired song, he sings in both Arabic and German (with a thick Berliner accent) from the ground of honor (“vom Boden der Ehre,” ostensibly the battlefield) demanding the listener to work hard for paradise (“also strengt euch an für das Paradies”) (Musharbash 2013). And then there is Bushido. The popular German rapper, born in a suburb of Bonn but brought up in Berlin, Bushido, the son of a German mother and Tunisian father, attests in his most current hit that death threats still carry shock value and can lead to commercial success. He raps, “I shoot at Claudia Roth, and she’ll have holes like a golf course” in his latest song “Stress ohne Grund” (“Stress Without Reason”). Roth, the party chief of Germany’s Green Party, is not the only politician being targeted by rap musicians. Bushido continues, “I want Sekran Tören to bite into the dust” (“Ich will das Serkan Tören jetzt ins Grass beißt”). The words are followed by the distinct sound of two gun shots. Bushido’s lyrics



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

151

continue: “What power of attorney, you, faggot, will be tortured?” (“Was für Vollmacht, du Schwuchtel, wirst gefoltert?”). Tören is the openly gay integration spokesman for Germany’s Free Democratic Party, the party that was the junior coalition partner to Angela Merkel’s conservatives until the September 22, 2013 election. These are two radical directions rap in Central Europe is currently trending—the former symbolizing jihad and radical opposition to Western consumerism and imperialism and the latter, while critical of the political establishment in Germany, is clearly aligned with the provocative stance of gangsta rap. While Cuspert’s militant anti-German and antidemocratic stanzas might be disturbing, Bushido’s lyrics are not against the system per se. He articulates his disgust with a number of individual leftist politicians. Cuspert, seemingly risking his life in Syria, perhaps exemplifies the anti-establishment stand much more than Bushido, who became wealthy selling his gangsta rap. Of course, Bushido personifies the successful migrant rapper tickling the audience with provocations while commercial success was probably not at the forefront of Cuspert’s thinking; he personifies a subversive taboo, mutating from rapper to jihadist. It is true that radical anti-statism remains the exception to the rule in German and European hip hop, but a number of hip hop artists with migration background have become increasingly critical of political institutions and individual politicians. Perhaps one of the most aggressive and more obscure developments is the rise of Millatu Ibrahim, an ultra-conservative Salatist organization led by Cuspert and his friend Mohamed Mahmoud, an Austrian national with Egyptian roots. Millatu Ibrahim aimed to ignite a holy war and introduce Sharia law in Germany. German authorities did not look too kindly upon such endeavors. However, when German officials outlawed the organization and shut down its webpage in the summer of 2012, it had about 4,000 followers, according to official sources (Spiegel 2012). This is of course not the first time that subversive rap rattled the mainstream through provocative messages. Fler’s 2005 album Neue Deutsche Welle was decorated with Nazi symbols and advertised with the slightly altered Hitler quotation “Since May 1 we are shooting back” (“Ab 1. Mai wird zurückgeschossen”)—the opening statement of World War II prior to the invasion of Poland in 1939) and included rhymes such as: “Black, red, gold [the colors of the German flag], hard and proud” (“Schwarz, Rot, Gold, hart und stolz”) (Kim 2005). The hip hop record label Aggro apparently recognized the popularity of right-wing hip hop and the dull German nationalism of the Berliner MC Fler among the disassociated middle-class youth, turning the album into a best-selling solo album in German history. While linking unreflective, right-wing neo-Nazi slogans and symbols with hip hop, Fler and others continued to advocate both in

152

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

public statements and in some of their texts openness to foreigners and migrants. While Fler, Bushido, and other rappers have banked on the popularity of right-wing provocations, becoming successful and wealthy in the genre, the radicalized Cuspert and Mahmoud apparently stepped outside the capitalist system. However, these actions could be seen as the logical consequence of the anti-establishment stance embedded in hip hop, perhaps symbolizing the most radical development within the genre. Although much of mainstream Central European (like American) hip hop has evolved from a position of social and political activism to its present-day forms, including aggro rap and gangsta rap, underprivileged youth groups in Berlin, Vienna, and other Central European cities have continued to use hip hop to empower and lift up their own marginalized communities. I will argue in this chapter that they do so, however, by choosing a third way. They follow neither the path of commercialization symbolized by artists like Bushido and Sido nor the radical (and sometimes violent) rejection of Westernization and capitalism of Cuspert. In this chapter I will propose an extension of Christopher Malone and George Martinez’s thesis about hip hop’s organic globalizing features. In the first part I will briefly focus on two unique elements of hip hop in Central Europe: (1) the early onset of rap as a middle-class commodity; and (2) the specific understanding of blackness associated with American hip hop in Central Europe. The second part will provide support for the commodification theory by describing the history of hip hop as a middle-class phenomenon from the early popularity of break dance to gangsta rap within Central Europe, closing with the development of migrant and underground rap in the early 2000s. The third part will focus on one of the more bizarre current trends within the genre: the commercial success of right-wing and neo-Nazi rap. The fourth part of the chapter will focus on the question of authenticity within rap and hip hop elaborating specifically on the issues of gender and women rappers and street credibility within underground rap. The text’s overall argument centers upon the notion that hip hop in Central Europe has surpassed the political activism stage outlined by Malone and Martinez and is currently experiencing a rupture with a number of subgenres, for example gangsta rappers but also Nazi rappers and nice-guy rappers becoming very commercially successful while producing mostly stunted and banal rap based on the usual chauvinism and the devaluation and belittlement of others. However, the rise of underground and migrant rap, critically reflecting on the current socio-economic situation of minorities and women, provides voices and possibilities for authentication for young people outside the commercialized mainstream. This is where the exciting and



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

153

fascinating work is being produced—far away from the commercial successes of the music industry.1

Hip hop in Central Europe: A unique experience Malone and Martinez (2010: 531) identified three stages of hip hop’s political development. The first is the cultural awareness and emergence stage marked by the identification and recognition of voices of marginalized communities through music and art. The second is the social creation and institutionalization stage, marked by the development of independent, alternative institutions and non-profit organizations in civil society geared toward social and economic justice, and the third is the political activism and participation stage. While the claim that hip hop is an organic globalizer also holds true for Central Europe, I contest here that at least in this region the description of Malone and Martinez’s three stages is incomplete and that we should perhaps add a fourth stage: the commercialization of rap, which led to subgenres like gangsta and Nazi rap becoming exceedingly popular, limiting the critical political potential of the genre in favor of provocative popularity. This went hand in hand with the increased commodification of hip hop and rap throughout the 1990s, when savvy entrepreneurs began to recognize the economic opportunity that rap provided. Hip hop language, style, and attitude were swallowed and transformed into a commodity (Hart 2009: 12). Authors have argued that the commercialization of rap music expanded the definition of hip hop culture beyond the four elements of graffiti, break dancing, DJ-ing, and rap music to include verbal language, body language, attitude, style, and fashion (Hart 2009; Kitwana 2002: 8). During the commercialization period of hip hop culture, the music industry began to de-emphasize the artistic elements while the attitudes, styles, language, and fashions of rap music became major representations of hip hop culture. In the American context, when these fashions, attitudes, and verbal language became narrowly associated with the ghetto, gangster, misogynistic, and materialistic images, hip hop music often shifted from representation to exploitation (Hart 2009: 13). By reflecting images of black people as colorful and violent criminals, drug dealers, and sex beasts, other notions of what it means to be black were ignored and instead racist and sexist images of black people were reinforced (Rose 2008). This chapter’s research is supplemented by a number of qualitative in-depth interviews with: Jan Becker, street worker, and Elvira Berndt, head of social workers, both for Gangway, Berlin, Germany, conducted on September 27, 2012, and Manuela Synek, head of social work, on November 18, 2009 and July 30, 2013, three street workers, Tugban Uslu on November 18, 2009, Mile Blagojevic on November 11 and 17, 2009, Igor Bosnjakovic on November 13 and 24, 2009, July 30, 2013, and August 1, 2013, all for the NGO Back Bone, Vienna, Austria. 1

154

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Nevertheless, the globalization of blackness, usually associated with the concept of diaspora (Brown 2006: 143), also resonates strongly with minority and migrant status in still vastly majority white states. Thus, the blackness in hip hop is less relevant in ethnic terms but rather “for its ability to stand in for various types of oppression” (Brown 2006: 146). While mainstream hip hop in Central Europe was always commodified and commercialized, in contrast to American hip hop, it was exactly the attempt of Turkish-German migrant rappers to appropriate African American art for their own purposes that allowed some migrant youth to use rap as a “mode of resistance” to what was seen as an attempt to swallow hip hop by a hegemonic culture industry (Brown 2006: 141, 142). The blackness of American hip hop—standing for the foreigner, the one who does not belong, the one that is discriminated against—allowed for this association.

A historical analysis of hip hop and class Proposing a genre analysis, Mark Pennay (2002) describes the cultural context from which German rap emerged in the 1980s, specifically making reference to the white, middle-class, “monocultural” roots of German hip hop, in stark contrast to the urban, underprivileged, multicultural heritage of American hip hop. This remains one key difference between Central European and American hip hop. Perhaps with the exception of youth in urban regions behind the Berlin Wall—which fell in November of 1989—hip hop was conceived in the 1980s and remained for a decade or so largely a middle-class phenomenon. The lyrics of most German and Austrian rappers focused on everyday observations and clever puns also because for a long time there was no counterpart to the American gangsta rap, perhaps with the exception of the Untergrund Poeten (Trischler 2013). After the discovery of the Strassenrap (street rap) in Germany, the tone started to change and get harsher. In Austria, for example, artists such as Phat Frank & EMC, Sua Kaan, and Chakuza became regionally recognized (Trischler 2013). Class, race, and language are the three key differences between the American and the German genre. In the early 1980s hip hop in Germany was largely defined through break dance, particularly in the TV show VIVA Freestyle, when a broadly middle-class fan base developed (Pennay 2002: 115). In fact, Pennay argues: Once the break dance craze passed it became increasingly obvious that there was very little common ground between the underprivileged urban U.S. home culture of early rap music and the experience of West German



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

155

youth; the fact that raps were in a foreign language appears to have rendered the emerging political elements of the genre opaque. (Pennay 2002: 115) In the former East German parts officials soon revised their initial stance of seeing hip hop as a “warning example of ‘capitalist competition’” (Henkel and Wolff 1996: 72–3), which clearly advanced the popularity of the genre, to acknowledging in particular break dance “not as an expression of Western decadence but rather as a combat sport art of the culture of the repressed masses in America” (Henkel and Wolff 1996: 73). East German youth, who identified with the marginalization of American rappers, discovered some of the initial political message of U.S. hip hop, according to Pennay, by forming a community that distributed rare records smuggled in from the West, learned dance moves without the benefits of video replay from illegally watching West German TV channels, and even reproduced spray paint art styles using toothbrushes in the absence of aerosol cans to reproduce spray paint art styles on T-shirts (Pennay 2002: 116). However, once the Wall fell in 1989 the East German dance crews lost all relevance in the dust cloud of history. “Der Kommissar” by Falco in 1982 is considered the first home-grown Austrian rap record, but Falco never associated himself with the hip hop culture (Trischler 2013). However, the Styrian group Erste Allgemeine Verunsicherung (EAV) responded to the unexpected worldwide success of “Rapper’s Delight” by the Sugarhill Gang with their own version entitled “Alpenrap” in 1983. While Falco’s “Der Kommissar” could be taken to include certain socio-critical elements although it is mostly the story of a police chase, probably involving cocaine use, EAV’s “Alpenrap” is persiflage, banter about the domestic mainstream music industry and its American influence. Both song lyrics cannot be considered particularly political or critical but were commercially successful. Dennis Hopper’s 1992 film Colors rekindled some interest in hip hop in Central Europe (Henkel and Wolff 1996: 57), but the musical style itself did not ignite grassroots enthusiasm. Instead, it had to be packaged and marketed to gain some sort of traction—with mostly middle-class teenagers (Jacob 1992: 170). Perhaps because of language barriers German youth engagement with explicitly political pronouncements of the U.S. rappers of the early 1990s became “consumerist posturing” (Pennay 2002: 116). At best, these texts were parroted and acknowledged by the German middleclass youth but no serious engagement with rap as a medium of political expression occurred. The exception to this rule might have been East German sprayers who made the preserved sections of the Berlin Wall one of the most fiercely contested aerosol-art surfaces in the world (Pennay 2002: 117). In Austria, the band Schönheitsfe(h)ler was one of the first groups not to be afraid of experiments. With “A Guata Tag” they produced the first

156

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Viennese dialect rap song and collaborated with the indie rock band Heinz on “Mein Ruf ist im Eimer” (Trischler 2013). The band received their first airtime on the radio, which is associated with (if not a prerequisite for) commercial success, briefly in mid-2000 before the group fragmented. Additionally, some small clusters of second-generation and migrant youth in and around urban centers began to appropriate hip hop, and particularly rap, to their own circumstances. While the latter local beats remained largely unrecorded, these were the localities where socio-political dissatisfaction met the individual’s need for authentification. In reality, in the Central European market of the 1980s and 1990s American imports usually made it very difficult for local artists to establish themselves. The first quintessential German hip hop group emerged in 1993, originating from the middle-class suburbs of Stuttgart: Die Fantastischen Vier! Rapping in German, the band grasped the idea that rap means “word” and that its “message” should not just be groove and beat. However, they apparently “had nothing to say” (Jacob 1992: 195). In stark contrast to The Fantastischen Vier! stood the German group Advanced Chemistry. Rooted in immigrant culture and consisting of a trio of Italian (Toni L.), Ghanaian (Linguist), and Haitian (Torch) backgrounds, the Heidelberg group described with their rap “Fremd im eigenen Land” (“Foreign in my Own Country”) in clear German what it means to hold German citizenship but to be treated like a foreigner based on one’s appearance (Pennay 2002: 120).2 The track seemed to be tailor-made for a country that had suddenly turned racist. The song “Asylpolitik,” for example, presented Germany from another perspective from which the artists could question German asylum politics. These songs clearly responded to a climate of right-wing agitation that had spread throughout Germany after reunification in 1990, resulting in neo-Nazi demonstrations and arson attacks against a number of asylum seekers and Turkish immigrants in Hoyerswerda and Rostock in 1991. Rap artists brought into sharp focus the level of widespread and implicit racism that was ignored if not actively denied despite the overtly racist attacks against foreigners. A number of rappers with second- and third-generation backgrounds began to reconstruct the everyday reality of discrimination. However, it took a decade in Germany, and longer in other countries, for the political dimension of rap to gain a foothold and even then it was often In 1995, three years after “Fremd im eigenen Land” was released, the hip hopper von Anti covered the song and changed the lyrics to: “We from the East feel also strange in our own land, we are treated like asylees and East-niggers” (“Wir aus dem Osten fühlen uns fremd im eigenen Land, wir werden wie Asylanten und Ostnigger behandelt.”) Later the group MC Pain turned the song’s initial pro-immigrant socio-critical content into a clear anti-Turkish racist message: “Turks get richer and richer, Germans poorer and poorer … One day soon, a Turk will be chancellor.” (“Türken werden immer reicher, Deutsche immer ärmer … Kommt noch so weit, dass ein Türke Kanzler wird.”) (Rühle 2010). 2



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

157

completely overshadowed by a commercial appropriation of these musical styles for traditional pop themes, as expressed clearly by The Fantastischen Vier! (Pennay 2002: 120–2). Two trends occurred after hip hop had crossed the Atlantic: the first one was the fast and quick commercialization of hip hop as a middle-class phenomenon. The second, much slower and much more sparse and patchy, trend was hip hop’s adaptation to regional and local, often inner-city subcultures. Thus, only in the 1990s did German rappers began to rap in German and Turkish. In the 1980s, English-language rap and the accompanying saggy-pants, crooked-cap aesthetic was imported to Germany from American ghettos together with the graffiti scene (Müser 2013). Curiously, in Central Europe, the scene caught on among a slice of the middle class, which could actually afford the saggy, brand-name garb. It was, however, not until the 1990s, with Die Fantastischen Vier!, that Germanspeaking hip hoppers started writing lyrics in their own language, freeing themselves from their American idols. With their hit single “Die da?!” Die Fantastischen Vier! were the first German-language hip hop group to make it into the charts and bring German-language rap to the mainstream (Pennay 2002: 123). Groups like Die Fantastischen Vier!, Massive Töne, and Blumentopf were all relatively tame in socio-political terms, focusing on love songs and bourgeois interpretations of life in wealthy suburbia. German-language hip hop had its origin with nice, German middle-class kids who started rapping, imitating what they saw on MTV or heard in the underground clubs. They were the ones who could afford to spend their allowance on CDs or music equipment: “They didn’t have rough lives and they didn’t rap rough” (Roxborough 2005). This stands in stark contrast to the way American rap was transplanted to other European countries. In France, the children of African and Arab immigrants in the banlieues’ housing projects around Paris and Marseille seized on hip hop as a way of expressing their unique cultural identity. Musicians like MC Solaar, NTM, and I AM rapped very early on in verlan and argot—French immigrant slang—giving a voice to the second-generation immigrants in France (Roxborough 2005). In the United Kingdom, Caribbean and Jamaican communities in London and Birmingham gave rise to home-grown rappers including Mark Morrison and Pato Banton, who mixed Afro-Caribbean beats with a no-holds-barred depiction of English ghetto life (Roxborough 2005). That tradition continues today with artists like Dizzee Rascal and So Solid Crew. In Central Europe, a region which has almost no colonial past, the immigrant community took longer to discover hip hop as an artistic venue to express the political and other frustrations in various subgenres, including aggro rap, gangsta rap, and underground rap. When it finally did happen in the 2000s, a number of colorful first- and second-generation artists gave voice to the widespread alienation felt in

158

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

various migrant communities. For example, the aforementioned rapper Bushido, who grew up in Berlin Tempelhof, an immigrant-dense district of Berlin, or the rapper Sido, born in 1980 in East Berlin to a German father and a Sinti mother, exemplify the voice of the second-generation immigrant for many. As an 8-year-old, Sinti, his siblings, and his mother were granted asylum in the Federal Republic of Germany and the family moved to the district Märkisches Viertel in West Berlin (Stern 2009). In the song “Mein Block” (“On My Block” from the 2004 album Die Maske [The Mask]) Sido encapsulates the neighborhood he grew up in: Get in! I will show you something: The place where my people hang: Skyscrapers, smog, a few trees, People on drugs—this is where dreams die.3 Since the 1990s the hip hop scene has developed within the force field that exists between commercially viable material and migrant hip hop, which is considered not or at best marginally marketable. Or as one of my sources puts it: “Anybody with a USB stick thinks they can become a gangsta rapper and a millionaire.” Hip hop’s appeal, however, appears to be universal. Kids of every ethnic and socio-economic background are fascinated by hip hop. For some, it becomes an all-encompassing leisure activity. Kids, specifically the ones who have a keen interest in commercial success, are declaring every suburb a ghetto and devoting their entire time to getting “rich and famous.” They often propagate a world of commercial “needs and desires” in their rap songs. This attitude is common among many artists not only within the gangsta rap community but also among the nice-guy rappers, such as Cro, Muso, Casper, Maxim, and Prinz Pi (“Die Neuen Milden”), who play nice and are often commercially very successful instead of dissing (“offending someone” in hip hop jargon) the hegemonic society (Müser 2013). That this current emphasis of the news media on “wack” (weak) rap truly symbolizes a permanent commercial turn of the genre from the gangsta rappers to a warmer and less chauvinist form of hip hop in Central Europe is questionable, specifically when considering the enormous success of Bushido’s latest gangsta rap LP. However, the industry currently highlights extremes: on the one hand, the nice guys’ hip hop is clearly designed to contribute to the commercialization strategy 3



Steig ein Ich will dir was zeigen: Der Platz an dem sich meine Leute rumtreiben Höhe Häuser—dicke Luft—ein paar Bäume—Menschen auf Drogen Hier platzen Träume. (My translation.)



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

159

of the big producers and, on the other hand, the entire Central European music industry seems to adhere to increasingly more radicalized right-wing, German-nationalist allures.

The commercialization of right-wing rap In Europe, hip hop is fertile ground not only for socio-critical left-wing agitation; right-wing neo-Nazis stir also increases in popularity. There are an estimated 15 to 20 extreme right-wing rap groups currently active in Germany alone, although some of them remain fringe internet projects with just a few YouTube videos (Schulze 2013). Among the most popular groups are N’Socialist Soundsystem (the N stands for National), Sprachgesang zum Untergang, Natürlich, and solo artists MC Bock and MaKss Damage (Schulze 2013). Rapper MaKss Damage started his musical career under the same name with left-wing lyrics before converting to neo-Nazism because the leftist groups seemed “too gay” for him (Schulze 2013). The South Tyrolean rock band Frei. Wild is presently one of the most successful German rock bands. Their song “Patriotischer Deutschlandrock” (“Patriotic Germany-rock”) has delivered large audiences and conveyed their Nazi ideas to the mainstream, while apparently attempting to obliterate notions of a free and accepting society and receiving ovations for it (Störungsmelder 2013). Frei.Wild hails from the north Italian town of Brixen, South Tyrol, a region that until the 1919 signing of the Treaty of Saint-Germain was part of Austria, and in which underground instigation against the assimilationist Italian integration policy occurred at least until the early 1970s. Thus, Frei.Wild’s ideological roots are perhaps more genuine and less commercialized than many of the right-wing rappers, like Fler, who have been labeled not necessarily political right but “incredibly stupid” with their German-nationalist performance. This perhaps attests to clever branding and image strategy rather than a rise of popularity for the ideology of political neo-Nazism (Rühle 2010). Others are ostensibly anti-Semitic. For example, MaKss Damage holds strong anti-American opinions, believing that the United States is coaxed by a Jewish conspiracy on the East Coast that subjugates the German people (Schulze 2013). Or Mor raps that “wack MCs” should be sent to “gas showers” and children into the concentration camp (“Kinder ins KZ”) (Rühle 2010). Of course, this might all just be a flirtation with the taboo to increase sales numbers. Nevertheless, most of those neo-Nazis proclaim that they see themselves as having little to do with the movement of hip hop and despise some of its features, such as the ghetto kids and their bling (Schulze 2013). In addition, one of my sources explained that the rhyme schemata has changed. Following French gangsta

160

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

rap, songs are frequently based on four to the four beats—a technique that makes rapping simpler but also less imaginative. In the meantime an entire youth movement seems to have developed in Europe, specifically in France, Germany, Austria, and the Czech Republic, focusing on the maintenance of the so-called “European” identity against Muslim migrants and multiculturalism: the Bloc Identitaire. While the group engages in campaigns to maintain European (meaning white, ethnically German/French/Austrian/Czech) traditions, it employs so-called flash mob activities often in opposition to multicultural events, such as pro-migration or asylum advocacy projects. For example, the Wiens Identitäre Richtung (WIR—acronym means “us” in German) engaged in so-called “Störmanöver” (“disruptive action”) against an Afro-Haitian dance workshop sponsored by Caritas. WIR also organized against a squatter activity when docents of Pakistani refugees who were threatened with deportation occupied a Catholic church in the heart of Vienna in December 2012 and January 2013. The activists often appear in pig and monkey masks. The movement’s precursors come from East Europe, in particular Russian neo-Nazis whose local Hard Bass crews organized flash mobs called “mass attacks” where packs of masked youths “pump dance” aggressively in public, scaring passers-by. The entire ritual is filmed and uploaded onto YouTube, apparently inspiring other new Hard Bass crews. While some authors have speculated that Bloc Identitaire could attempt to use hip hop to transfer its exclusionary message, others have emphasized that the largely white middle-class movement appears to have no “street credibility” (Anwander 2013).

Authenticity and alternative rap Street credibility is produced through authenticity within the subculture. Authenticity, that elusive term, has to do with identity and genuine truthfulness. Young artists, specifically those originating from less privileged and often ethnic backgrounds, want to appropriate the global hip hop culture for themselves so as to become more authentic as individuals. Hip hop as an identity marker can help authenticate the identity of young people who often feel neglected, slighted, and, above all, are bored by the dominant culture. This appears to be specifically true for young secondgeneration rappers in Germany and other countries with large migrant populations, such as Austria and the Netherlands. Hip hop has become the medium to express the mixed identity of these young artists, who find themselves between two or more cultures. Thus, these hip hop artists are a product of a modern Europe that can charm and repel in equal measure. The anger, angst, and identity issues that they experience are



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

161

shaped by contemporary social, cultural, and political trends. They are part of the generation that feels a “dual-marginalization” most acutely as they struggle to relate to their parents while they simultaneously grapple to find their lot in the local community. They are part of the generation that is caught in Central Europe’s painful transition toward a multi-ethnic and multi-religious society in which identity, for the first time, began to be defined along civic lines. Moreover, they are “on the receiving end of the pain that results when major social changes occur, pain that many don’t recover from” (Anwander 2013). Feeling on the fringes of the mainstream society, feeling deeply anti-establishment was not only “cool” but the only place for a young second generation of Kanaken (Turks), “gay gypsies” (schwule Zigeuner), and “Niggers” growing up in the 1980s and 1990s. The 1990s ushered in a new phase of state-sponsored multiculturalism in which the major immigrant communities, specifically the Turkish and North African communities, were often seen as parallel societies, individual and separate blocs rather than an integrated part of a bigger whole. This allowed the more reactionary forces within some of the minority communities to rise to the fore. After all, the more different you were the more authentic you seemed to purveyors of this peculiar form of multiculturalism (Anwander 2013). There are a number of definitions of authenticity that can provide useful insights into the hip hop scene. Authenticity is based on the possession of subcultural capital in hip hop and other subcultures alike, according to Sarah Thornton (1995). Subcultural capital includes dress and hairstyle, gestures, language, and knowledge of the history of the specific subculture, and ownership of actual music collections (Anwander 2013). Members of the subculture distinguish themselves from the wider society and other music scenes through subcultural capital. A hierarchy exists within the subgroups. The member’s individual position depends on the amount of subcultural capital acquired and active participation in hip hop events rather than being an audience member only (Oravcová 2013: 128). Kembrew McLeod (1999) lists six factors that authenticity within hip hop is influenced by: one’s relationship to racial identification, social status, individualism, hip hop music, the popular music industry, and gender. Everyone who represents these factors in their own experience, in the streets and underground, who belongs to a racial and ethnic minority, and knows the history of hip hop culture and embodies hard masculinity, can claim authenticity. White folks, hailing from the suburbs, following mass trends and mainstream hip hop cannot prove a deeper understanding of the genre and people who represent “soft” masculinity are considered inauthentic (McLeod 1999). Both of those definitions are clearly based on American hip hop and dance movements of the 1990s and might have limited applicability for the Central European migrant and underground hip hop scene.

162

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Gender interpretations: In Turkish/migrant communities and hip hop Gender—specifically the almost exclusionary approach to women in McLeod’s and other analyses of the genre—is a different criteria altogether in the underground rap scene, especially in cities with large Turkish populations. Daughters of Turkish, Serbo-Croatian, and other immigrants hailing from traditional patriarchal societies, have perhaps been able to penetrate the gender barrier that is so obvious in hip hop because with their rap and other hip hop art they were perceived as breaking a parental taboo and challenging the majority society’s stereotypes. A handful of young women rappers in Vienna who had their beginnings in the 20th district, a workingclass and immigrant suburb, have become regionally acknowledged and have begun to perform at posh outlets and shows, such as the Wiener Festwochen (Franz 2012). Some of their songs are performed in Turkish or Serbo-Croatian, others in German, some even in English, often opening up with folk melodies but swiftly changing to rap beats. Many of these songs, produced in small, self-made music studios, focus on socio-political problems, such as xenophobia, gender, and socio-economic inequality, chauvinism, and racism. The Turkish-Austrian female rapper EsRap, usually performing with her younger brother, who sings while she raps, for example, often focuses her lyrics on socio-critical questions. In her bilingual song “Endstation Gleichberechtigung” (“Final Station: Equality”) she asks for equal treatment of men and women, while the rap and accompanying YouTube video clearly emphasize the existing economic disparity within Viennese society:4 My translation (from: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=THIA6Ca3gQs): Eh yo wenn dir was nicht past Dann mach dein Maul auf Das Leben ist ein Lokal Willkommen sei bei mir der Gast Arbeiter Aber wenn wir zusammen sind, sind wir lauter Wir kennen keine Grenzen Mein Vertrauter Wenn das Schicksal so kommt, kann ich es annehmen Wenn nicht, glaub mir, dann stehe ich auch vor ihnen Ob Gewinn oder Verlust egal Man ich versuche es— Denn wer nicht versucht Hat schon verloren Du ich weiß es Wo es Unterdrückung gibt Gibt es auch Widerstand Wo bist du? 4



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

163

Eh yo if you don’t like this Then open your mouth Life is like a bar I welcome the guestworker But if we are together we are louder We know no borders My confidante If fate will emanate this way, I can take it If not, believe me, then I will stand in front of them If winning or losing, does not matter Man, I understand— The one who doesn’t try it has already lost You, I know it Where there is oppression There is also resistance Where are you? Where do you stand? Where is your homeland? Who are you? What do you do? Then give me your hand What do you know? Please give me space Everybody is made of blood and bones Who do you think you are? No matter if man or woman The human should count The way he is No matter if drop-out or diplomat EsRap’s raps may have reached such regional popularity because her lyrics

Wo stehst du? Wo ist dein Heimatland? Wer bist du? Was machst du? Dann geb’ ich dir meine Hand Was weißt du? Bitte nimm Abstand Jeder ist aus Blut und Knochen Was glaubst du wer du bist? Egal ob Mann oder Frau Der Mensch sollte als Mensch zählen So wie er ist Egal ob keinen Abschluß oder Diplomat

164

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

are compassionate and inclusive. This kindness and openness toward others is a recurring theme for many female rappers. For example, the female Berliner rap genius Mc Josh explains the daily racism she endures like this:5 Strange looks across from me This just was alien—very unusual Look at her, look at this one You are not playing in my club That’s what you just wanted to tell me Your look reflects my look Just right now were your thoughts the barriers that banned me They knew all my bad sides Come on let us open our views You and I are not as different as you think If you only smile for me and you don’t limit yourself Human remains human Extremely unusual, again Every step in your look at me Turns me into a loser That clever is apparently your way Though I am not too cold and therefore it will also become my issue My issue? Women of immigrant and Turkish background might have been able to penetrate the gender barrier that is so obvious in the genre of hip hop

5



My translation (from: http://rapgenius.com/Mc-josh-spuck-auf-rechts-10-lyrics): Komische Blicke mir gegenüber Das war eben wieder außerirdisch—äußerst ungewöhnlich Guck mal, guck mal, die da Du spielst nicht in meiner Liga Das wolltest du eben sagen Deine Blicke reflektieren meine Blicke Eben waren deine Gedanken die Schrankn, die mich verbannten Sie kannten alle meine schlimmen Seiten Komm, lass uns die Blicke weiten Wir beide sind gar nicht so verschieden, wie du denkst Wenn du mir nur ein Lächeln schenkst und dich nicht selber beschränkst Mensch bleibt Mensch Äußerst ungewöhnlich, eben wieder Jeder Schritt in deinem Blick zu dir Macht mich zu einem Verlierer So geschickt ist wohl oder übel deine Art und deine Masche Doch ich bin nicht kalt und deshalb wird es auch zu meiner Sache Meine Sache?



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

165

exactly because their rap and hip hop personas fly in the face of the Western understanding of Muslim women. The Western feminist viewpoint has frequently been used in public discourse to draw clear distinctions between us (wealthy, white, well-educated, secular Europeans) and them (the Turks and Balkan inhabitants, uneducated, religious, traditional, and patriarchal immigrants; see, e.g. Weiss 2007) (Franz 2012). Thus, popular right-wing parties campaigned with slogans such as the following: Freie Frauen statt Kopftuchzwang! (“Free Women Instead of Headscarf Coercion”) in Central European countries. These perceptions of patriarchal power relations within immigrant families are widespread. As a consequence, the underground hip hop subculture might specifically be interested in supporting young female rappers who originate in exactly these immigrant cultures because their involvement in hip hop is perceived as being a major taboo and clearly anti-establishment. In this sense, rap and hip hop can become more counter culture and aid changing social and political realities if they sanction and support hip hop performances of young women often (perceived as being) against the wishes of their parents—but also clearly breaking with established stereotypes in the majority society. In addition, rappers like EsRap and Mc Josh clearly have opened doors for many girls of Turkish and other immigrant descent to become involved in music and dance performances.

Street credibility and authenticity Authenticity is produced through street credibility. While a convincing command of style, fashion, and knowledge of hip hop history might aid in gaining street credibility within the urban underground scene, it is the artists’ network and their position in it that provides them with authenticity. In-group characteristics, that is, the belonging to a specific subculture, award more authenticity than the mostly fashion-driven identity markers. For example, according to one of my informants, in Vienna’s underground hip hop culture there are about 600 people who know each other, exchange ideas, and sometimes rap with each other. This adds an additional social or network element to Thornton and McLeod’s purely identity-driven definitions—opening it up to the possibility of exchange that goes beyond identity features to include possibly sociocritical and political contexts. Whether wack rap, Nazi rap, or gangsta rap are commercialized, hip hop artists associated with the underground rap genres, such as oriental rap or Rümpelrap (“rubbish rap”), have very little chance of commercial success. Oliver Marchart (2003) describes the commercial/alternative dichotomy in music subcultures as follows: underground is presented as innovative and is contrasted with the “parasitic mainstream.” A term like “sell out” is directed against those members who dare to change sides, thereby acting

166

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

like traitors to the cause of subcultural resistance. Nevertheless, hip hop will only retain and preserve its “mode of resistance” as an underground art form. Once commercialized or even funded by other means, such as banks, NGOs, and political parties, hip hop might become instrumentalized for other messages. Rejecting this modus vivendi, one of my sources stated bluntly: “I am not interested in rocking eggs” (Ich habe keinen Bock Eier zu schaukeln). The differentiation of authentic underground and sell-out commercialized mainstream, to be sure, is very subjective and has its traps if one considers all kinds of financial success as sell-out (Oravcová 2013: 133–4). It is true that underground hip hop artists go to open mike jams and practice their art without attending major mainstream events. They often become organizers of small, homegrown events, where they include sprayers, break dancers, and MCs, or they produce music (in small home-made studies) and sell their own work. For example, the Viennese rapper ADMC has repeatedly organized small events without commercial or municipal sponsors. Whatever hip hop they produce, it remains true for these artists that being authentic includes a critical stance toward commercialization. Hip hop’s role as a truth teller, however, is based on the much-abused formula “keep it real,” so an authentic and real interpretation of one’s own life cannot be overestimated. Thus, as one of my sources claims: “Haftbefehl and Bushido don’t have a Black Panther background!” Mainstream artists, however, often use themes and style in their videos and lyrics that are similar to American rap: the storylines are stereotypically about partying, selling drugs, and the number of women one sleeps with. Thus, the gangsta image has gained much popularity even in Central European urban centers, where many of these representations of American ghetto life remain incongruous and bizarre—and inauthentic. Central Europe’s social life is not based on the history of a severe race conflict; kids do not have to cope with friends being incarcerated, they do not form gangs and face the police in street fights, call for cop killings, and they usually do not deal drugs. The Central European experience is different—less brutal, less driven by violence and poverty, but instead based more on a welfare system that guarantees minimal support, a society that is based on limited socio-economic mobility, specifically for outsiders, and that is defined by overt and structural racism, xenophobia, and daily discrimination. There are no guns in Central Europe but access to alcohol and prostitution is unrestricted. One of my sources postulates: It is not the same. In Austria you are already a victim if you bought the wrong cell phone! We live in a social welfare state. We have no ghettos. We have social security and healthcare. We don’t make that kind of hip-hop because we live differently. We must tell very different stories.



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

167

Nevertheless, the current gangsta image, focused in part on machismo elements—how hard one is and how many women one has, and in part on an almost reverse chauvinism vis-à-vis the mainstream populace—is expressed through attitudes like the following: “I’m a foreigner and thus I’m allowed to do that. You can cheat Austrians but not foreigners, though!” The implication here is that one can get away with things when dealing with natives but not with other immigrants because the latter are tougher and harder to deceive. Largely enthralled by the American music industry, gangsta and commercial rap have long lost their political relevance in Central Europe. Accordingly, the two songs leading the German charts during the week of February 2, 2014 are “Happy” by Pharrell Williams and “Timber” by Pitbull. Indeed, as Hans Loh and Murat Güngör (2002) have pointed out hip hop developed into a two-class society. The authors note that much of the mainstream has been hijacked by the commercialized right, leading to flat, atrophied rap promulgating racist messages, such as rapper Villain 051, who calls for a “rap holocaust” that he wants to perform upon “immigrants and enemies of the people” (Rühle 2010). Today, anything goes. Bushido raps in “Gangbang”: “A dick in the ass, a dick in the mouth, a dick in the face, now we really fuck” (“Ein Schwanz in den Arsch, ein Schwanz in den Mund, ein Schwanz in die Fotze, jetzt wird richtig gebumst”). On the one hand, Central European hip hop has fundamentally been a middle-class spectacle that of late has fractured into the much smaller, tamer wack rap and the increasingly right-wing and blatantly vulgar gangsta rap. Both of these have dominated the hip hop charts. On the other hand, socio-critical voices are not dead. Many underground artists continue to engage in the Sisyphian task of articulating the experience of the unprivileged, marginalized, and largely silenced minorities by exchanging ideas and themes and articulating an alternative stance because, as Gigo Flow and Pyranja realize, “Human Equals Human” (“Mensch gleich Mensch”) in their rap song that opens with the following lyrics:6 I was still young and didn’t really understand Didn’t feel the racism, thought it is normal Cited in: Gateway Beatz (2010) Vol. 2 Metropolitans Songtext Berlin: Gateway Beatz (my translation): Ich war noch jung und hab’s nicht richtig wahrgenommen Den Rassismus nicht gespührt, ich hab mich normal benommen Meine Hood zu verlassen, wäre für mich nicht in Frage gekommen Darauf bin ich erst mit 21 Jahren gekommen Glaub mir im Osten von Berlin gehen viele Meinungen nach rechts Ich war zu klein um zu kapieren, warum sie weiß sind und ich nicht Warum ich ab und zu Beleidigungen krieg So was wie Nigger oder Bimbo, dieser Scheiß war echt verrückt 6

168

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Never thought about leaving my hood I only realized this when I was 21 years old Believe me many people turn toward the right in the East or Berlin I was too young to realize, why they are white and I’m not Why I was insulted on and off Something like Nigger or Bimbo, this shit was real crazy

Conclusion Hip hop in Central Europe, specifically the non-commercialized underground subgenres, is defined by the second- and third-generation immigration youth, children, and grandchildren of the original Turkish and Yugoslav guest workers and other immigrant cohorts. Turning rap into a method of socio-political protest and expression and a way of life, these young people use art to attempt to authenticate and validate their existence between immigrant roots and mainstream society. Alternative forms of hip hop, including underground hip hop, slang rap, migrant hip hop, and oriental hip hop, remain largely outside of commercialization and concealed from mainstream consumers. And this is exactly where the excitement happens because “street credibility” only exists outside of the mainstream. Gangsta rappers appear to be mostly interested in fame and financial fortune and are driven by the profit-hungry music industry. Rap increasingly focuses on profanity and vulgarity and/ or right-wing lyrics for shock value, mostly. Alternative forms of rap still stir passions for subcultures with a profundity and wit in language use. These rap songs frequently have a critical message and want to transform society. In Germany, Austria, and other Central European countries it appears that the art form of hip hop is currently experiencing an internal struggle: on the one hand, the big industry of mostly U.S. imports and a few very successful gangsta rappers, but also including some soft and right-wing rappers whose music is highly commercialized and widely broadcasted on the main radio stations, are seeking to profit from the existing youth cultures. On the other hand, various forms of non-commercialized rap artists are working in subgenres and their music is rarely picked up by the commercial channels but they adhere to voicing political and often socially critical messages. The borderlines between these groups of artists are fluid also because in the second decade of the twenty-first century even commercially successful hip hop artists in Central Europe originate in migrant cultures. Nevertheless, these minorities, particularly the Turkish group, remain marginalized even after 60 and more years of residence in their respective countries.



Hip hop and the dialects of political awareness

169

References Anwander, Stephan. March 13, 2013. “Rechts Rap: Phantom oder Phänomen?” The Message: Your Urban Music and Arts Magazine. http://themessage. at/?p=18642 (accessed January 11, 2014). Brown, Timothy. 2006.“‘Keeping It Real’ in a Different Hood: (African-) Americanization and Hip-hop in Germany.” In Dipannita Basu and Sidney J. Lemelle, eds, The Vinyl Ain’t Final: Hip Hop and the Globalization of Black Popular Culture, pp. 137–50. London: Pluto Press. Franz, Barbara. 2012. “Immigrant youth, hip-hop, and feminist pedagogy: outlines of an alternative integration policy in Vienna, Austria.” International Studies Perspectives 13(3): 270–88. Hart, Walter Edward. 2009. “The Culture Industry, Hip-Hop Music and the White Perspective: How One-Dimensional Representation of Hip-Hop Music Has Influenced White Racial Attitudes.” Master’s thesis, University of Texas, Arlington. Henkel, Oliva and Karsten Wolff. 1996. Berlin Underground: Techno und Hip-Hop zwischen Mythos und Ausverkauf. Berlin: FAB Verlag. Jacob, Günther. 1992. “Update zur Deutschen Ausgabe.” In David Dufresne, ed., Yo! Rap Revolution, pp. 1–6. Neustadt: Buchverlag Michael Schurinn. Kim, Uh-Young. May 22, 2005. “Skandal Rap: Fler und Er.” Spiegel. http:// www.spiegel.de/kultur/musik/skandal-rap-fler-und-er-a-356560.html (accessed January 27, 2014). Kitwana, Bakari. 2002. The Hip Hop Generation: Young Blacks and the Crisis in African American Culture. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Malone, Christopher and George Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45. Marchart, Oliver. 2003. “Bridging the Micro-Macro Gap: Is There Such a Thing as a Post-Subcultural Politics?” In David Muggleton and Rupert Weinzierl, eds, The Post-Subcultural Reader, pp. 83–97. Oxford: Berg. McLeod, Kembrew. 1999. “Authenticity within hip-hop and other cultures threatened with assimilation.” Journal of Communication 49(4): 134–50. Müser, Kate. August 27, 2013. “Germany’s Rap Scene Harmoniously Divides in DW.” http://www.dw.de/germanys-rap-scene-harmoniously-divides/a-17045243 (accessed January 11, 2014). Musharbash, Yassin. September 5, 2013. “Radikale Ansichten: Deutscher Dschihadist und Ex-Rapper meldet sich aus Syrien.” Zeit Online. http://blog. zeit.de/radikale-ansichten/2013/09/05/deutscher-dschihadist-und-ex-rappermeldet-sich-aus-syrien (accessed February 10, 2014). MZEE. 1997. http:www.planetsound.com/label/mzee (homepage of MZEE) (accessed January 16, 2014). Pennay, Mark. 2002. “Rap in Germany.” In Tony Mitchell, ed., Global Noise: Rap and Hip-Hop Outside the USA, pp. 111–33. New York: Wesleyan University Press. Rose, Tricia. 2008. The Hip Hop Wars: What We Talk About When We Talk About Hip Hop—and Why It Matters. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Roxborough, Scott. 2005. “Almost Like Real Gangstas: This Time, German Rap

170

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Is Coming from the Streets.” Atlantic Times (February). http://www.atlantictimes.com/archive_detail.php?recordID=128 (accessed February 27, 2014). Rühle, Alex. May 11, 2010. “Musik als Politplatform: Rechts auch Nur rein Image?” Süddeutsche Zeitung. http://www.sueddeutsche.de/kultur/musik-alspolitplattform-rechts-auch-nur-ein-image-1.438297 (accessed February 20, 2014). Schulze, Christoph. 2013. “Neonazi Rap Used as Recruitment Tool in Germany.” Imagine2050. http://imagine2050.newcomm.org/2013/11/01/the-rise-of-neonazi-rap-as-a-recruitment-tool-in-germany (accessed December 11, 2013). Spiegel. June 14, 2012. “Verbot von Salafisten-Verein: Schlag gegen gewaltbereite Deutschland-Hasser.” Spiegel. http://www.spiegel.de/politik/deutschland/ salafisten-mit-razzien-und-vereinsverbot-gegen-radikalislamisten-a-838813.html (accessed December 11, 2013). Stern. November 5, 2009. “Sozialistische Grüße vom Ex-Gangsta Rapper.” http:// www.stern.de/kultur/musik/sido-ueber-sein-leben-im-osten-sozialistischegruesse-vom-ex-gangsta-rapper-1519118.html (accessed December 16, 2013). Störungsmelder. January 15, 2013. “Völkischer Mainstream-Rock— Frei.Wild und die extreme Rechte.” Zeit Online. http://blog.zeit.de/ stoerungsmelder/2013/01/15/volkischer-mainstream-rock-frei-wild-und-dieextreme-rechte_11073 (accessed December 16, 2013). Thornton, Sarah. 1995. Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital. Wesleyan, CN: Wesleyan University Press. Trischler, Stefan. 2013. “Hip Hop in Austria.” Austrian Music Export. http:// www.musicexport.at/genre-portrait-hip-hop-in-austria (accessed February 21, 2013). Weiss, Hilde, ed. 2007. Leben in Zwei Welten: Zur Sozialen Integration ausländischer Jugendlicher der Zweiten Generation. Wiesbaden: Verlag für Socialwissenschaften.

CHAPTER TEN

Representations of Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop during post-Soviet era Cuba Angela Ju

Editors’ note From Central Europe we come back to the Western Hemisphere with Angela Ju’s analysis of hip hop in Cuba. In “Representations of Chinese-ness,” Ju seeks to understand political activism and the political potency of hip hop in post-Soviet era Cuba by asking a series of questions: How are racial identities discursively constructed and cued in states with significant government limitations on openly critical discussions about race relations? How are Chinese-Cubans and Chinese-ness represented in Afro-Cuban hip hop? What are these representations’ roles in either reinforcing or changing Chinese-black relations in post-Soviet era Cuba? Employing an approach first put forward by political scientist Lisa Wedeen, Ju conceptualizes Afro-Cuban rap songs as meaning-making practices that have explanatory power in shaping race relations between Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans on the island. She employs a discourse analysis of two rap songs, “A Lo Cubano” and “Tumbando y Dando” from the Afro-Cuban group, the Orishas, which offer insights into Cuba’s history during its era of African slavery and present-day politics. The songs detail the racialization of Chinese-Cubans by their Afro-Cuban counterparts in hip hop—in the end both positively and negatively. For us, Ju’s work is fascinating for several reasons. First, very little scholarly work has focused

172

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

on this subgenre of hip hop in Cuba to date. Second, “Representations of Chinese-ness” underscores hip hop’s ability to raise cultural and social awareness about racial and ethnic conflict even in the face of stringent government limitations on open discussions about those issues. Third, Ju’s work identifies a situation where hip hop speaks to a relationship between groups similarly marginalized from mainstream Cuba—if for different reasons. We are certainly curious to see if Ju’s thesis bears out over time and where it goes from here. Will Afro-Cuban hip hop continue to shape race relations between marginalized communities? Further, will this cultural and social awareness lead to social institutionalization and political activism on a more pronounced level—all in a country that has limited the growth of civil society? ***

Introduction In this chapter, I analyze race constructions and race relations between two groups of Cubans of color in post-Soviet era Cuba: Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans.1 The study of race relations in post-Soviet era Cuba has been overwhelmingly framed within a black-white binary. Many historians have emphasized the significance to Cuba’s racial mixture of the addition of Chinese laborers in the second half of the nineteenth century into the island’s white-owned plantation system in which African slaves and Chinese contract laborers worked side-by-side and the significance of Chinese-black race constructions and relations that resulted from their interactions with one another (e.g. Baltar Rodríguez 1997; Hu-DeHart 1999; Pérez de la Riva 1976; Yun 2008). For the most part, however, studies on race relations of Cubans of color in contemporary Cuba have neglected the existence of Chinese-Cubans and their role within Cuban race relations and racial politics. Specifically, I examine how Chinese-Cubans and Chinese-ness are represented in Afro-Cuban music and what these representations’ roles are In this chapter, I use the terms “Afro-Cuban” or “black” in line with other Anglophone scholars to describe Cubans of African descent. In Cuba, more commonly used terms are negro/a, mulato/a, and other intermediate categories. The Cuban use of the term afrocubano generally refers to an art form or cultural practice that has maintained much of its continental African roots (Perna 2005). I use the terms “Chinese-Cuban” to refer to a Cuban of Chinese descent in line with other Anglophone scholars. In Cuba, the commonly used term is chino/a to describe any Cuban of Asian descent or even Afro-Cubans of heavy-lidded Congolese descent (Moore 1997: 15). The terms chino-cubano and sino-cubano have also been used in official Cuban discourse. 1



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

173

in either reinforcing or changing Chinese-black Cuban relations in postSoviet era Cuba. Generally, the chapter deals with how racial identities are discursively cued in states with significant government limitations on openly critical discussions about race relations. The two songs, “A Lo Cubano” (“The Cuban Way”) (2003) and “Tumbando y Dando” (“Knocking Down and Striking”) (2004),2 which I will use to answer these questions are from the popular hip hop group the Orishas. I will argue that Ruzzo Medina, an Afro-Cuban member of the Orishas who takes on the persona of a Chinese-Cuban in “A Lo Cubano,” creates a distinctive “Chinese-Cuban” register of the Cuban Spanish vernacular thus making use of a “distancing discourse” in addressing his primarily Afro-Cuban audience through the use of pronunciation, pronouns, and metaphor. In contrast, use of repetition in “Tumbando y Dando” helps to create a manifestation of interlocutor closeness with Cubans of color by emphasizing a contrasted identity of whiteness particularly associated with white racism. In order to appreciate the insight that these songs provide, it is important to have an understanding of the history of Chinese-black relations in Cuba and the history of Afro-Cuban rap on the island. The following sections provide a brief overview of the historical context of Chinese-black relations in Cuba, main bodies of historical interpretation, and an overview of the history of Afro-Cuban rap.

Historical context of Chinese-black relations in Cuba By the middle of the nineteenth century, Cuba was the world’s number one producer of sugar, which meant that the economy had become heavily dependent on African slave labor (Hu-DeHart 1999). After the abolitionist movement arrived in Cuba and the British launched an embargo against the African slave trade, Spanish colonizers took a cue from their British West Indies counterparts and saw inexpensive Chinese labor as an obvious alternative to African slave labor (Baltar Rodríguez 1997; Hu-DeHart 1999). The first Chinese arrived in Cuba in 1847 when the Spanish brought in the first Cantonese workers to work in the sugar fields alongside the African slaves. Although the estimates vary, from 1848 to 1874 about 150,000 Chinese entered Cuba, which, at the time, made up about 10 percent of the total Cuban population (Baltar Rodríguez 1997). All Spanish to English translations in this chapter are my own unless otherwise noted. Full acknowledgment for use of lyrics from these two songs is given at the end of this chapter. 2

174

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Upon the abolition of slavery in Cuba in the 1880s, the African slaves and the Chinese coolies3 were dispersed from the plantations. With the help of Chinese immigrants from California and New York, the stereotypical Cuban image of the Chinese merchant became more apparent (Yun 2008; Yun and Laremont 2001). After having established a tradition of small business ownership beginning in the 1860s to before the onset of the Cuban Revolution in 1959, the Chinese in Cuba had established a Barrio Chino (Chinatown) with strong transnational ties to China in each major Cuban city (Hu-DeHart 1999; López 2004). Unlike their Afro-Cuban counterparts, who for the most part did not have the means to leave Cuba after Fidel Castro’s triumph in Havana in 1959, large numbers of Chinese-Cubans left Cuba primarily for the United States because the petit bourgeois nature of the small business owners put them at ideological odds with the new socialist regime (López 2004). For the first decades of the Revolution, the Cuban government institutionalized silence in its dealings with racial discrimination, and government control of the press prevented Afro-Cuban intellectuals from publishing about “black issues” as they had done in pre-Revolutionary years (de la Fuente 2001). Also, Cuba’s primary ally, the Soviet Union, had troubled relations with the People’s Republic of China, which further contributed to repression of expressions of Chinese-Cuban culture on the island (López 2009). By the fall of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s, however, both Afro-Cuban and Chinese-Cuban culture came to be seen as important tourist commodities in helping to revive Cuba’s economy during what the Cuban government has called “The Special Period” (López 2009).4 It was also during this time period that trade and diplomatic relations between Cuba and the People’s Republic of China became increasingly cordial, which also opened up space for the revival, and oftentimes reconstruction, of Chinese-Cuban culture, businesses, and historical centers like the Barrio Chino (Chinatown) in Havana (López 2009).

The terms that the Spanish used to describe the coolies were chinos, contratados, and colonos. It was not until 1956 that the term culi made its way into the Diccionario de la Real Academia Española, which notes the word’s origin in English and Hindi and its use for designating Indian or Chinese labor (Yun 2008). Both Cuban and U.S. scholars of Chinese-Cubans use these terms to describe the Chinese laborers who worked on the plantations. 4 After consultations with Cuban scholars, I have chosen not to use Fidel Castro’s euphemistic term, período especial (Special Period) to describe this period after the fall of the Soviet Union, which devastated the Cuban economy, acknowledging that the term must not be uncritically used and accepted. 3



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

175

Historical interpretations The two main historical interpretations of race relations on the plantation system argue that: (1) the Chinese occupied a social and legal status that was between black slaves and white owners; and (2) the Chinese generally occupied a lower social status than white owners and even black slaves. These interpretations are important because they serve as potential hypotheses for the nature of current race relations between Chinese-Cubans and Afro-Cubans on the island. I use Claire Jean Kim’s triangulation paradigm to synthesize these two bodies of historical interpretation. In her work on the racial positioning of Asian Americans in the United States, Kim posits that: (1) the dominant whites valorize Asian Americans more than blacks on cultural and/or racial grounds (Superior-Inferior axis) to dominate both groups; and (2) whites construct Asian Americans as perpetual foreigners and are unable to assimilate with whites and blacks on cultural and/or racial grounds (Foreigner-Insider axis) in order to ostracize them from the body politic and civic membership. This paradigm has persisted since the mid-1800s5 and only underwent minor changes in the post-1965 era in keeping with the norms of color-blindness, providing a normative blueprint for which groups deserve what, reproducing patterns of white power and privilege (Kim 1999). To demonstrate Kim’s Superior-Inferior axis, I engage the historical interpretation of Evelyn Hu-DeHart (1999), who argues that the introduction of Chinese coolie laborers into Cuba in the nineteenth century created a third classification of citizens in Cuba who were legally neither free nor slave and racially neither black nor white. According to Hu-DeHart, Chinese coolies did not automatically assume or were not automatically given the racial identity of the slave and often fluctuated between being identified as black or white. The coolies distanced themselves from the slaves because they were at least free in legal status and were moved up into semi-skilled labor alongside white workers, who were paid much better. She concludes that the Chinese coolies occupied a space much like those of the “colored” category under South Africa’s apartheid system. Likewise, to demonstrate Kim’s Foreigner-Insider axis, I engage the historical interpretation of Lisa Yun. In the words of Hu-DeHart, “slaves naturally felt a sense of superiority to the alien coolies” because they were more assimilated into Cuban society (1999: 203). Lisa Yun (2008) provides a thorough investigation into these aspects of race relations on the sugar plantations. Through her interpretations of Chinese coolie This was the same time period in which the Chinese arrived in Cuba as well as other parts of Latin America, the United States, the Caribbean, and South and Southeast Asia. 5

176

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

testimonies and an 1874 commission report consisting of 1,176 oral testimonies (depositions) and 1,665 written testimonies (petitions), Yun argues similarly to Juan Pérez de la Riva (1976) that the Chinese coolies were generally treated worse than African slaves. She argues that white overseers often sought to pit blacks against Chinese as black slaves were often involved with burying Chinese killed by the overseers or involved in sabotaging their Chinese counterparts. The Chinese often reported that black overseers were particularly brutal (Yun 2008). The despair of these Chinese laborers contributed to Cuba’s possession of the world’s highest suicide rate. From 1850 to 1860, suicides per million inhabitants on the island included 5,000 Chinese, 350 Africans, and 57 whites. Yun argues, “In the schema of colored power, ‘black’ was portrayed by coolies as the in-between, the middle, and the racial divide between contract labor and ownership” (2008: 165).

Interpreting hidden transcripts and semiotic practices as explanatory variables Due to the sensitive nature of and restrictions on the public discussion of race in Cuba, I find the use of political discourse analysis of texts reflecting relations between Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans to be essential for this investigation. Because of ex-President Fidel Castro’s famous dictum regarding freedom of speech in Cuba proclaimed in his “Address to Intellectuals” speech: “Within the Revolution everything; against the Revolution nothing”(2001: 81), it is difficult to find political texts that openly discuss race relations from the perspective of Cubans of color. According to political scientist James Scott, by the use of subtle codes, one can insinuate into a piece of cultural production, such as a song, meanings that are easily understood by the intended audience and opaque to another audience that the performers wish to exclude. Even if the powerful, excluded audience understands the hidden message in the performance, it will find it difficult to react because of the way that message is veiled in such an innocuous manner (1990: 158). In choosing to use song lyrics from Afro-Cuban rap to provide this discourse analysis in this chapter I follow the example of Sujatha Fernandes, who argues that public spheres, particularly “artistic public spheres,” can exist in one-party systems and within the state apparatus (2006: 13). Because infrapolitics, the realm of informal leadership of subordinate groups, non-elites, and oral discourse, “requires more than a little interpretation” (Scott 1990: 200), I have chosen to provide a thorough analysis and contextualization of each of the two songs that are widely known in Cuba’s public sphere rather than a broad overview of a greater body of songs.



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

177

Following political scientist Lisa Wedeen’s (2002: 713–14) example, I therefore conceptualize “how symbols are inscribed in practices that operate to produce observable political effects.” In other words, I conceptualize discourse strategies as explanatory variables. The conceptualization of culture as semiotic practices also serves as a lens of political phenomena by focusing on how and why actors invest these phenomena with meaning. The meaning-making practices and lenses that I examine as an explanatory variable are Afro-Cuban songs, and the political effects that I observe are race relations between Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans on the island. Following Hanna Pitkin, Wedeen defines practices as “dual,” meaning they are composed of both what the observer can see and the doer’s understanding of his or her actions (2002: 720). Accordingly, “[p]ractices make sense because they are reproduced historically and conceptualized through language” (Wedeen 2002: 722).

Interlocutor distance as discourse strategy The tools that I use in my analysis of “A Lo Cubano” and “Tumbando y Dando” are taken primarily from elements of political scientist Richard D. Anderson’s discursive theory of democracy and also in part from linguist Olga T. Yokoyama’s work on iconic manifestation of interlocutor distance. Anderson argues that identity is a variable that varies over time and that “[r]elational meanings can cue someone to recognize either a personal or social identity” (2001: 100). He emphasizes three findings from experimental research: (1) a person will accept costs to him- or herself and impose costs on others with the same social identity when a text draws his or her attention to that social identity provided that these costs increase the perceptual distance between his or her own social identity and bearers of a contrasted social identity; (2) a person becomes more aware of differences between groups that have opposed social identities and less aware of differences among people of one of the given social identities when a text draws that person’s attention to social over personal identity; and (3) arbitrary cues are enough for one identity group to pay costs in order to penalize people of an opposed identity and to focus their attention on inter-group rather than interpersonal differences (Anderson 2001: 100). According to Anderson (1996), these identities can be cued with varying uses of linguistic forms. For example, longer utterances tend to communicate more conceptual distance across many languages. Also, rulers tend to use a language that is foreign to a local population or a distinctive “register” of the local vernacular. Anderson employs Irvine’s definition of a register as “a coherent complex of linguistic features linked to a situation of use” (Irvine 1990: 127). “Distancing discourse,” in effect, “causes a minority to separate itself from the rest of the population and to discriminate against

178

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

the majority” (Anderson 2004: 127). I will argue that Ruzzo Medina, an Afro-Cuban member of the Orishas who takes on the persona of a Chinese-Cuban in “A Lo Cubano,” creates a distinctive “Chinese-Cuban” register of the Cuban Spanish vernacular thus making use of a “distancing discourse” in addressing his primarily Afro-Cuban audience through the use of pronunciation, pronouns, and metaphor. In contrast, Anderson argues that democratization occurs when: (1) the elite’s identity as distinct from the population starts to weaken; and (2) the elite’s political discourse appropriates the ordinary language of the people whom they formerly excluded in political activity and cues the public to affiliate themselves with political contenders (2001: 97). I will argue that in “Tumbando y Dando,” the Orishas do not construct Chinese-Cuban identity as distinct from an Afro-Cuban identity and that they assert their black political identity by cuing Afro-Cubans to unite themselves with Chinese-Cubans as Cubans of color and against white racism through the use of prepositions, repetition, and pronouns. According to Yokoyama (1994), one of the manners in which interlocutors create unrestrained grammar, which can be seen as a manifestation of interlocutor closeness, is through the use of intensification by repetition. I will argue that in contrast to “A Lo Cubano,” use of repetition in “Tumbando y Dando” helps to create a manifestation of interlocutor closeness for Cubans of color by emphasizing a contrasted identity of whiteness particularly associated with white racism.

Historical context of Afro-Cuban rap In Cuba in the 1980s, rap, just like many forms of American cultural production, was considered the music of the enemy. Cuban youth, however, accessed it through radio waves from Miami (Fernandes 2006: 88). Although the first waves of American rap music to hit Cuba were commercial in nature, by the time of the first rap festival in 1995, Cubans were exposed to rap music dealing with black consciousness in the United States. These visits by U.S. rap artists were crucial to the early formation of Cuban hip hop as these performers “spoke a language of black militancy that was appealing to young Cubans” (Fernandes 2006: 91). Cuban rap, as a distinct form from American rap, began to develop in the 1990s. Until 1991, hip hop culture happened at the neighborhood or local community level in Cuba, and the source of the music would be the United States. Both rap music and hip hop culture gained popularity in the predominantly black, working-class, and high-density housing neighborhoods such as Alamar, Old Havana, Central Havana, Santos Suárez, and Playa (Fernandes 2003, 557–8). During the 1990s, Cuban rappers in



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

179

the Alamar housing development in Havana started performing in public areas. Focusing on what Cornel West has called the “new cultural politics of difference” (1990: 19), Fernandes argues, Cuban rap and visual arts have developed publics outside of official cultural life, thriving in the streets and barrios rather than in official theaters, movie houses, and galleries. What is distinctive about these new cultural movements is their language of diversity and particularity. (2006: 85) The Cuban government uses these networks to rebuild popular support in a time of growing racial cleavages. Unlike Afro-Cuban religion, santería or abacuá, which has become more popular among the general Cuban public in the post-Soviet era, rap music has tended to be more politically assertive and radical and has served as the voice of young Afro-Cubans. Cuban rap tends to speak more to Cuban youth, who did not live through the early years of the Revolution and who are now hardest hit by the institutional failures of the Revolutionary government (Fernandes 2006: 89). Although Cuban rap emerged at the grassroots level, the Cuban government started to institutionalize it in the 1990s. The government organized concerts at two Casas de la Cultura (Houses of Culture) in Havana in 1991, created a radio program, and promoted international rap artists on television (Fernandes 2003: 580). The Cuban government also played a role in hip hop’s decline between 2003 and 2007. While it had supported hip hop’s showpiece festival in 1997, it dropped its support for the festival in 2005. By 2007, many of the leading rap artists had left Cuba, and reggaetón had overtaken much of hip hop’s cultural space (Baker 2011: 335). It was, however, in this year that the hip hop scene experienced a renaissance of sorts with the help of advanced technology. Even though Havana’s rap scene became smaller, global Cuban rap listenership increased due to digitalization (Baker 2011: 355).

The Orishas The Orishas were once part of a group known as Amenaza, which was central to the evolution of Cuba’s underground hip hop movement. Two members of Amenaza emigrated from Cuba in 1998 and settled in Paris. There, they formed the Orishas with two resident Cuban musicians in France (Baker 2011: 13). Since the release of their first album, A Lo Cubano (2003), the Orishas have received Grammy nominations for subsequent albums. Although the Orishas maintain strong ties to Cuba and have talked about going back to the island to join the hip hop movement, some

180

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Cuban rappers feel that the Orishas have sold out to commercial interests (Fernandes 2006: 94; Ramsdell 2012: 102). Despite these concerns, I still find the songs of the Orishas useful for the purposes of this chapter because their songs are well known by a significant portion of the population in Havana (Ramsdell 2012), and are thus part of Cuba’s public sphere.

“A Lo Cubano” The first song that I will discuss is “A Lo Cubano” from the Orishas’ first album of the same name. Despite Fernandes’s condemnation of this album as a commercial ploy, I find the namesake song of this album to be useful for answering my research questions because it is commonly played in Cuba’s public sphere. This album circulated widely in Cuba, and the songs are well known in Havana (Ramsdell 2012: 107). Additionally, Ramsdell (2012) admits that the cultural symbols of the album can only be fully appreciated by Cubans who survived the worst years after the fall of the Soviet Union. The authenticity attributed to A Lo Cubano was due to the fact that the Orishas had lived in Cuba through the worst years after the fall of the Soviet Union and the fact that the album was produced within only two years of emigrating from Cuba (Ramsdell 2012: 108). This song is also significant in that it attempts to define that which is Cuban through the use of stereotypically Cuban tourist commodities. It begins with “A Lo Cubano / Botella’e ron, tabaco habano / Chicas por doquier / Ponche en Café Guano” (“The Cuban way / Bottle of rum, Havana tobacco / Girls on both sides / Rap concert at Guano’s house”).6 In the music video for this song, made with the collaboration of French hip hop producer Miko Niko, these lyrics are rapped with the backdrop of the members of the Orishas mingling among Afro-Cuban and mulata women dancing on the beach in bikinis or tank tops with short skirts. In effect, the music video for this song may be interpreted as a tourist advertisement for Cuba. The inclusion of Ruzzo Medina’s representation of a ChineseCuban in this song and the partial setting of the music video in Havana’s Barrio Chino may suggest that Chinese-Cuban culture is as much a tourist commodity as the other items listed at the beginning of the song.

Chinese-Cubañol/Chinese-Cuban pidgin language Although Chinese-Cubans are not directly mentioned in “A Lo Cubano,” near the end of the song in the music video, Medina, dressed in stereotypically Asian martial arts attire in Havana’s Barrio Chino, starts 6

Translation by Sujatha Fernandes (2006).



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

181

simultaneously performing martial arts moves while rapping in a distinctive high-pitched “register” that is supposed to imitate the speech patterns of Chinese-Cubans. Gonzalo de Quesada called this Chinese-Cubañol, and Lisa Yun (2008) calls this Chinese-Cuban pidgin language. Medina raps, Y ahora te lo disparo en chino Voy a adelantal La constitución Del quinto mandamiento dice En el saglado liblo de la metrica temática Que guarda el señor tiempo y tu centro Del cual yo soy su honorable emperador Y utilizo mi lengua como un tenedor Para desceleblarte a ti so melón And now I throw it to you in Chinese I am going to promote The constitution Of the fifth order says In the sacred book of the thematic metric That keeps Master Age and your center Of which I am its honorable emperor And I use my tongue7 like a fork In order to take out your brains under a melon.8 What many Spanish speakers will notice right away is the switching of /r/’s to [l]’s in many of the words: adelantar (to promote) becomes adelantal, sagrado libro (sacred book) becomes saglado liblo, descerebrarte (to take your brains out) becomes desceleblarte. It is primarily in this way that Medina produces this “distinctive register” of Chinese-Cubañol. Although it is relatively well known among Spanish speakers that some Cubans pronounce /r/ as /l/ before another consonant or at the end of a word, it is notable that the only time this appears (at least as heavily exaggerated as this) throughout the song is when Medina is rapping as a Chinese-Cuban. According to John M. Lipski, the stereotypical habla del chino (“speech of the Chinese man”) is the change of /r/ to /l/ in all positions. He theorizes, based on research by Kao (1971), that this attribution came about because almost all of the Chinese who were sent to Cuba were Cantonese speakers, and Cantonese is a language that contains only /l/ to represent liquid consonants (Lipski 1999: 219).9 Lengua could also be translated as “language.” In Cuban slang, a melón is also a very attractive woman. 9 Probably the most famous study of the variable /r/ as a social differentiator was conducted 7 8

182

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Lisa Yun notes (2008) that the late nineteenth and early twentieth century Afro-Chinese Cuban author Antonio Chuffat Latour had commented on the use of Chinese-Cuban pidgin language as a subversive language. According to Chuffat Latour (1927), the Chinese would strategically use this pidgin language as a stonewalling tactic to gain the upper hand in business negotiations or in the Cuban wars of independence from Spain. One famous anecdote that Chuffat Latour recounted concerns Chinese coal workers who spoke Spanish to assist Cuban rebels. When the Spanish troops arrived to interrogate the Chinese, the Chinese adopted the use of exaggerated pidgin, causing the Spanish to give up, dismiss the Chinese as stupid, and leave (Yun 2008: 202). In a similar manner, the distinctive register that Ruzzo Medina adopts in his representation of a Chinese-Cuban is used to socially distance Chinese-Cubans from his primarily Afro-Cuban listeners through what Anderson calls “distancing discourse.” Another linguistic note of interest in this section of the song is that the only direct pronoun used in this section of the song is “yo” (“I”). All references to “you,” the listener who is probably intended to be Afro-Cuban, are implied through the use of the possessive “tu” (“your”) and the indirect pronouns “te”, which precedes the noun that is acting upon the second person singular object, and “ti”, which follows a preposition. This use of indirect pronouns to refer to the Orishas’ Afro-Cuban listener is another example of “distancing discourse” that subordinates and distances the Afro-Cuban from Ruzzo Medina’s representation of the Chinese-Cuban.

What Ruzzo Medina says as a Chinese-Cuban Of course, what Medina says is almost as mysterious as how he says it. From the very first line that he raps in this section, “And now I throw it to you in Chinese,” he creates metaphorical distance between himself as a representation of a Chinese-Cuban and his primarily Afro-Cuban audience because he is presumably far enough away to “throw” his words at his listeners, further distancing himself by doing so in a language that they cannot understand. Medina makes many implicit references to Confucianism, which is one of the cultural practices that have been revived in the current efforts to by William Labov in New York City department stores. In this study, Labov found that when pronouncing “fourth floor,” those salespeople in the highest ranked (most expensive) department store and on the most prestigious floors of their respective department stores were the most likely to pronounce /r/ as a constricted central glide-consonant while those in the middle ranked store have intermediate values of /r/ and those in the lowest ranked store had the lowest values of /r/ as a constricted central glide-consonant and were most likely to pronounce “fourth floor” with an absence of such a consonant (2006). Although I know of no such fieldwork that has been conducted on measuring the values of the Spanish /r/ as an alveolar tap, it is quite likely that the /r/ could serve as an indicator of social difference in Cuban Spanish.



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

183

restore and reconstruct Chinese-Cuban culture (Yun 2008). For example, it is possible that the fifth order refers to the fifth Confucian classic, the Spring and Autumn Annals, or the fifth century bce, the time period in which Confucius wrote these five classics. Knowledge of the five classics, which laid out the philosophies and principles of Chinese governance and society, was required for passage of the civil service examination (Yun 2008: 128). At any given time, the number of Chinese who passed these exams made up less than 1 percent of the population. Contrary to popular belief, as evidenced by the skilled use of the strict meter of Chinese poetic forms in some written testimonies for the Cuba Commission Report of 1874 on the treatment of the Chinese laborers on the island, some of the Chinese who were either tricked or coerced into going to Cuba to become laborers were members of the Chinese civil service (Yun 2008). Also, progressive Chinese officials established a Chinese-Western academy (Zhongxi Xuetang) in Havana in 1886 in order to educate the sons of Chinese merchants. Part of the school’s mission was to enable young Chinese males to maintain their cultural heritage through the study of the Confucian classics (López 2005). Thus, by invoking knowledge of the five classics, Medina, mockingly imitating a Chinese-Cuban, hierarchically positions himself as higher than his primarily Afro-Cuban audience by labeling Chinese-Cubans with symbols that the Spanish historically admired about Chinese civilization, quite likely voicing his audience’s resentment of the classification of this other people of color as superior and at the same time distancing the audience from Chinese-Cubans. Medina’s claim to be the “honorable emperor” of “your center” also serves to distance himself as a Chinese-Cuban from his primarily Afro-Cuban audience. “Your center” may refer to the Mandarin word for China, Zhcgguó, which roughly translates as “Central State” in English. This claim also provides a contrast to an earlier part of the song when another member of the Orishas asserts that the Orishas represent what is Cuban and implicitly Afro-Cuban: “Yo represento ron, mulata, Cuba hasta el fin / Mi Orishas como un imperio voy a construir” (“I represent rum, mulata, Cuba until the end / I am going to construct my Orishas like an empire”). Of course, by saying that he will use his “language” or his “tongue” as a “fork” in order to “take out the brains” of his primarily Afro-Cuban audience, the Afro-Cuban rapper pretending to be a ChineseCuban further deepens the perceptual divide between the “contrasted” social identity of Chinese-Cubans and Afro-Cubans, especially considering that earlier in the song, another member of the Orishas raps, “con mi conexión controlando bien mi lengua” (“with my connection controlling well my tongue”). That is to say, in contrast to the Orishas as Afro-Cuban elites who can control their tongues, Medina’s representation of a ChineseCuban “emperor” has to use his in a violent manner.

184

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

“Tumbando y Dando” The second song that I analyze, “Tumbando y Dando” (“Knocking Down and Striking”), comes from the Orishas’ third album, El Kilo. Although, like “A Lo Cubano,” “Tumbando y Dando” incorporates some elements of what Fernandes would consider commercial hip hop, such as salsa dance rhythms, this song is a lot less commercial in its lyrics than “A Lo Cubano.” “Tumbando y Dando” takes a radical stance condemning racism against non-whites. The Orishas rap: Por lo que saben por lo que valen Por lo que dan dan si luego van van Todos al mismo hueco De la tierra con el chino o el otro con El negrito fino que discriminaste For what they know for what they’re worth For what they give they give if later they go they go All to the same place Of the earth with the Chinese man or with the other with The fine blackie against whom you discriminated In contrast to the part of “A Lo Cubano” in which an Afro-Cuban rapper performing as a Chinese-Cuban communicates to his Afro-Cuban listener to cue a contrasted Afro-Cuban racial identity, throughout “Tumbando y Dando” the Afro-Cuban members of the Orishas communicate to a racist white listener in order to cue a common social identity among Cubans who are “discriminated against” by the white listener, including “the Chinese man,” “the other,” and “the fine blackie.” The rappers accomplish this effectively through the contrast of the preposition “against” with “with” and through the repetition of “with.” The Orishas ask their white listener, “¿Por qué me miras raro? Por no tener otro color / Otro sabor así de claro claro / ¿De qué me acusas a mi? De no ser blanco, blanco con mi gente” (“Why do you look at me strangely? For not having another color / Another flavor like that of light light / Of not being white, white with my people”). Again, this serves to create a common social identity among Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans as Cubans of color or Cubans who are not white. What should be further emphasized is the use of repetition. In the first example, the conjugated verbs “dan” (“they give”) and “van” (“they go”) are repeated. According to Yokoyama, repetitions of verbs imply an extended action in time or repeated action (1994: 96). Thus, the actions that “they” carry out, as opposed to “we,” are repeated and continuous.



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

185

In the second example, the words that are repeated, “claro” (“light”) and “blanco” (“white”), are meant to emphasize the contrasted identity of whiteness in the song. In both of these examples, there is an emphasis on a contrasted identity, “they” versus “we,” “light” versus “dark,” and “white” versus “black.” Thus, the Orishas produce a manifestation of interlocutor closeness for Cubans of color by emphasizing through repetition the contrasted identity of whiteness. As with the section of “A Lo Cubano” in which Ruzzo Medina constructs the Chinese-Cuban, the most prevalent direct pronoun used throughout “Tumbando y Dando” is “yo” (“I”). Nearly all references to “you” (who is now a white racist) are implied through various uses of second person informal commands like “Oye” (“Listen”), verb conjugations like “discriminaste” (“you discriminated against”), and the indirect pronouns “te” and “ti.” This use of indirect syntactical structures to refer to the white racist listener is another example of “distancing discourse” that separates Cubans of color from the white racist. Medina, the same Afro-Cuban rapper that performs as a Chinese-Cuban who violently threatens to “take out the brains” of his Afro-Cuban listener in “A Lo Cubano,” now directs the violence, apparent even in the title of the song, toward the idea of stopping racism: “Si el racism te ataca, golpéalo / Si se mete con tu gente, rastréalo / Si te para de frente, písalo / Machúcalo, asfíxalo” (“If racism attacks you, hit it / If it picks a fight with your people, drag it / If it stops straight ahead of you, tread on it / Beat it, asphyxiate it”). Unlike “A Lo Cubano,” in which Medina invokes a distinctive “register” to distance Chinese-Cubans from Afro-Cubans, in “Tumbando y Dando,” the Orishas rap in typical Afro-Cuban hip hop vernacular. As evidenced in the lyrics listed above, the language is more direct in “Tumbando y Dando” than in “A Lo Cubano.” The only invocation of a foreign language is the Orishas’ attempt to pronounce a classic Arab greeting between Muslims, “Salemalekum” (“Peace be upon you”). If anything, this phrase may be construed as demonstrating solidarity with the marginalized Muslims of the Orishas’ current country of residence, France, or a nod to the Muslim influences on Cuban history, society, and culture as evidenced by the Moorish-style Spanish colonial era buildings on the island. Because this song tends to have a more universal application than “A Lo Cubano,” it may also serve to demonstrate and encourage solidarity between identities of the “West” and identities of the “East.”

186

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Conclusion: Analyzing what interlocutor distance means for race relations between Afro-Cubans and Chinese-Cubans In this chapter, I analyze how Afro-Cuban rappers in post-Soviet Cuba’s public sphere reinforce or change Chinese-black race relations through the use of discourse strategies in their songs. My findings support Anderson’s (2001) argument that identity is a variable that changes over time and that relational meanings can cue someone to recognize a social identity. In “A Lo Cubano,” the Orishas create a distinctive “Chinese-Cuban” register of the Cuban Spanish vernacular, thus making use of a “distancing discourse.” In addressing their primarily Afro-Cuban audience, the Orishas reinforce historical Cuban stereotypes of Chinese-Cubans as integral to cubanidad but also as “exotic,” foreign, or not as inherently “Cuban” as Afro-Cubans. At the same time the Orishas remind listeners of symbols reflecting that Chinese culture had often been valued over Afro-Cuban culture by Spanish/Euro-Cubans. In contrast, in “Tumbando y Dando,” the Orishas do not construct Chinese-Cuban identity as distinct from the Afro-Cuban population, and they assert their black political identity by cuing Afro-Cubans to unite themselves with Chinese-Cubans as Cubans of color and against white racism. Applying a variation of Anderson’s argument about democratization as mentioned earlier in the chapter, I argue that this is how the challenge to structural racial hegemony occurs in “Tumbando y Dando.” This investigation of the hidden transcripts of Afro-Cuban music sheds light not only on how racial identities are discursively cued even in a state with significant government limitations on openly critical discussions about race but also on the political activism and political potency of Cuban hip hop in both reinforcing and changing these race relations.

References Anderson, R. D., Jr. 1996. “‘Look at all those nouns in a row’: authoritarianism, democracy, and the iconicity of political Russian.” Political Communication 13: 145–64. —2001. Postcommunism and the Theory of Democracy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. —2004. “A Discursive Theory of Democracy.” Discourse, Despots and Democrats in Russia and Elsewhere. http://www.sscnet.ucla.edu/polisci/faculty/ anderson/PS191d/chap2v9.htm (accessed November 1, 2008). Baker, G. 2011. Buena Vista in the Club: Rap, Reggaetón, and Revolution in Havana. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.



Chinese-ness in Afro-Cuban hip hop

187

Baltar Rodríguez, J. 1997. Los Chinos de Cuba: Apuntes Etnográficos. Havana, Cuba: Fundación Fernando Ortíz. Castro, F. 2001. “Address to Intellectuals.” In J. García Luís, ed., Cuban Revolution Reader: A Documentary History of 40 Key Moments of the Cuban Revolution. Melbourne: Ocean Press. (Original work published 1961.) Fernandes, S. 2003. “Fear of a black nation: local rappers, transnational crossings, and state power in contemporary Cuba.” Anthropological Quarterly 76(4): 575–608. —2006. Cuba Represent! Cuban Arts, State Power, and the Making of New Revolutionary Cultures. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. de la Fuente, A. 2001. Race, Inequality, and Politics in Twentieth-Century Cuba. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Hu-DeHart, E. 1999. “Race Construction and Race Relations: Chinese and Blacks in Nineteenth-Century Cuba.” In R. Rustomji-Kerns, ed., Encounters: People of Asian Descent in the Americas. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Irvine, J. 1990. “Registering Affect: Heteroglossia in the Linguistic Expression of Emotion.” In C. A. Lutz and L. Abu-Lughod, eds, Language and the Politics of Emotion. New York: Cambridge University Press. Kao, D. 1971. Structure of the Syllable in Cantonese. The Hague, Netherlands: Mouton. Kim, C. J. 1999. “The racial triangulation of Asian Americans.” Politics & Society 27: 105–38. Labov, W. 2006. The Social Stratification of English in New York City (2nd edn). Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Latour, Antonio Chuffat. 1927. Apunte Histórico de los Chinos. Havana, Cuba: Molina Press. Lipski, J. M. 1999. “Chinese-Cuban Pidgin Spanish: Implications for the Afro-Creole Debate.” In J. R. Rickford and S. Romaine, eds, Creole Genesis, Attitudes, and Discourse. Amsterdam: Benjamins. López, K. 2004. “‘One Brings Another’: The Formation of Early Twentieth Century Chinese Migrant Communities in Cuba.” In A. Wilson, ed., The Chinese in the Caribbean. Princeton, NJ: Markus Weiner. —2005. “Migrants Between Empires and Nations: The Chinese in Cuba, 1874–1959.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of Michigan Ann Arbor. —2009. “The revitalization of Havana’s Chinatown: invoking Chinese Cuban history.” Journal of Chinese Overseas 5: 177–200. Moore, R. D. 1997. Nationalizing Blackness: Afrocubanismo and Artistic Revolution in Havana, 1920–1940. Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press. —2006. Music & Revolution: Cultural Change in Socialist Cuba. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Orishas. 2003. “A Lo Cubano.” A Lo Cubano. EMI Blackwood Music Inc, Hall of Fame Music. Pérez de la Riva, J. 1976. Para la Historia de las Gentes sin Historia. Havana, Cuba: Editorial Ariel. Perna, V. 2005. Timba: The Sound of the Cuban Crisis. Burlington, VT: Ashgate Publishing Limited.

188

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Ramsdell, L. 2012. “Cuban hip-hop goes global: Orishas’ A lo cubano.” Latin American Music Review 33: 102–23. Scott, J. C. 1990. Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wedeen, L. 2002. “Conceptualizing culture: possibilities for political science.” American Political Science Review 96: 713–28. West, C. 1990. “The New Cultural Politics of Difference.” In R. Ferguson, M. Gever, T. T. Minh-ha, and C. West, eds, Out There: Marginalization and Contemporary Cultures. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Yokoyama, O. T. 1994. “Iconic manifestation of interlocutor distance in Russian.” Journal of Pragmatics 22: 83–102. Yun, L. 2008. The Coolie Speaks: Chinese Indentured Laborers and African Slaves in Cuba. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Yun, L. and Laremont R. R. 2001. “Chinese coolies and African slaves in Cuba, 1847–74.” Journal of Asian American Studies 4: 99–122.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS FOR USE OF LYRICS Tumbando Y Dando Words and Music by Roldan Gonzalez Rivero, Hiram Rivero Medina, Yotuel Omar Rivero Manzanares and Jose Miguel Mathieu Copyright © 2004 UNIVERSAL MUSICA, INC., EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC. and EMI MUSIC PUBLISHING BELGIUM All rights for EMI MUSIC PUBLISHING BELGIUM in the United States and Canada Controlled and Administered by EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC. All Rights reserved. Used by Permission. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation A Lo Cubano Words and Music by Nicolas Nocchi, Roldan Gonzalez Rivero, Hiram Rivero Medina, Yotuel Omar Rivero Manzanares and Livan Nunez Aleman © 2003 EMI BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC. and HALL OF FAME MUSIC All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured Used by Permission. Reprinted by Permission from Hal Leonard Corporation Special material, themes and/or guidance by Felix Reina, published by Hall of Fame Music. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The politics of violence, hustling, and contempt in the Oakland, CA rap music scene H. Lavar Pope

Editors’ note These last three chapters bring us back to the American context, and we begin with H. Lavar Pope’s excellent study of the rap scene in Oakland, California. Pope’s chapter focuses on the politics of Oakland’s underground rap music scene in the aftermath of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense’s (BPPSD) COINTELPRO-led demise in 1982. As Pope explains, “the Oakland rap scene is an imperative response to a particular form of trapped repression, which evolved into the politics of violence, hustling, and contempt.” Through the use of primary sources from the local scene, Pope explains that the politics of violence, hustling, and contempt within three historical eras (Panther, Gangster, and Hyphy) were responses to the worsening local conditions. These eras provide an underground model of a militant and radical inner city discourse largely insulated from mainstream influence. Hip hop was the vehicle for its expression. But Pope’s analysis is not just about rap and subcultures—which is why we feel it has great potential to transform future work around hip hop and political development. “The Politics of Violence, Hustling and Contempt” is also about the academy’s lack of attention to the discourses Pope identifies within the subfield of American Political Development (APD), and

190

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

FIGURE 11.1  A soundwave representation of 2Pac’s “IDGAF” with the quote above highlighted (2Pac 1991a [JPEG file]).

the dismissal of rap’s political content within Critical Race Studies (CRS). Pope argues here that the discourses constitute a necessary and important response to worsening local conditions and lack of urban visibility, and, as such, these discourses represent an important stage for studies of race and APD and offer an important scope for CRS. We wholeheartedly agree.

And if you look between the lines, you’ll find a rhyme as strong as a f*ck*n’ nine. (2PAC 1991A)

There’s no reason for a record like this to be released. It has no place in our society. (VICE PRESIDENT DAN QUAYLE, QUOTED IN GOLUS 2006: 43)

I think Tupac was more someone who was trying to inform us about what was going on, and he did it through entertainment. (SENATOR MARCO RUBIO (R-FL), QUOTED IN TELEGRAPH 2013; TMZ STAFF 2013)

***

Introduction This chapter argues that local rap music from Oakland, California and the surrounding Bay Area became an important successor of political communication after the local destruction of the Black Panther Party for Self

violence, hustling, and contempt

191

Defense (BPPSD) in 1982. I examine three cases to show how models were applied over three eras of local discourse branding—from Panthers in the late 1960s to gangster rappers in the early 1990s to “hyphy” rappers in the mid-2000s. This narrative illustrates that local rap music contained interconnected, evolutionary types of politics: (1) violence (1980s); (2) hustling (1990s); and (3) contempt (2000s). Similar to the BPPSD discourse, all three types of politics were a response to government failures and limited modes of expression and were marked by “demands made on the state by group actors” (Malone and Martinez 2010: 532). However, the local “thug life” form was not “a cultural caricature” imported from elsewhere (Malone and Martinez 2010: 534). Rather, it was a local political branding that explicitly and effectively used violence, hustling, and contempt to demand visibility, equality, and respect. This chapter examines primary sources from a particular micro-scene seriously, carefully, and with political power as a core focus. My framework applies elements of James Scott’s (1985) analysis of “hidden transcripts” and political resistance arts. I understand that the aggregate of common, everyday accounts can be essential in creating a local, parallel political community through political communication. This is partly informed by Michael Hanchard’s (2006: 17) analysis of political parallelism and understanding that rap music in the 1980s and 1990s was a direct reaction to what was seen as “incessant police surveillance and violence.” My framework is also partly informed by Robin D. G. Kelley’s (1994) analysis of LA gangster rap music, in which the microphone became a weapon of power—similar to a tech-9 or an AK-47 assault rifle.1 Kelley (1994: 193) described the “increasingly militarized landscape” in this collection of midto late 1980s South Central LA locales as “war zones” replete with “[p]olice helicopters, complex electronic surveillance, [and] even small tanks armed with battering rams…” In his analysis, lack of jobs in LA communities also fueled raps about the rising “crack economy” (Kelley 1994: 192–3). The end result was the creation of an astute street philosopher who made music about a new form of highly militarized presence on the streets. In Oakland, this local surveillance and violence happened alongside deplorable murder rates. For a town of around 400,000 people, Oakland has had a consistently high number of murders since the mid-1970s. In addition, there were increases in the number of murders (from prior years) in 1973, 1975, 1979–80, 1989–95, 2002–3, 2006–8 (FBI 2009, 2010; Oakland Police Department 2010). The local discourse response centered on “matters of [Hobbesian] sovereignty” to halt the dual macro-application of racism and power (Hanchard 2006: 48–9), but it changed the use of violence as “the final frontier” (Hanchard 2006: 44–50) to the frontline. For an exploration of delegitimized capitalism and “grey economies” in Chicago see Venkatesh 2005. 1

192

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

The statistics and exceptionally high murder rates within Oakland is a constant reminder that at any time, if you are black, male, between the ages of 10 and 24, and live in certain areas of Oakland, you are “at least 16 times more likely to die from homicide than [your] white peers” (Johnson 2010). This disproportionate toll has been the case for at least “a generation or more,” and recently has been as deadly as the U.S. engagement in Afghanistan: More than 1,000 people have been killed in Oakland in the past nine years. That bleak statistic is important because it closely parallels the toll of American dead from hostile encounters—996—during Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan, which began nine years ago this month… (Johnson 2010) The impact of this murder rate on the psyche of black youth, especially black men and boys is one of the reasons that rap music in Oakland sounds different than most other places. In black West and East Oakland workingclass neighborhoods, the possibility of being murdered lurks constantly and, unfortunately, this was confirmed with the murder of one of my closest friends (InsideBayArea.com 2006; Rufus 2008). Thus, local rap artists in the 1980s and 1990s began using violence as a rhetoric and tool in their verses because they perceived themselves as being surrounded by it. The failure of the political system to offer a comprehensive response, economic opportunity, and effective social institutions was the key reason for the types of rap brands created locally. My method is based on “grounded-theory” (Glaser and Strauss 1967) by using primary, internal, street-level sources to examine the development of local political communication. The selection of sources was informed by my role as an “involved participant” in the underground Bay Area rap scene from 2005 to 2010 as a professional deejay, producer, and sound engineer (Pope 2012: 31–42). I applied ethnomethodology (Gubrium and Holstein 1997: 38–56) to measure and analyze political content within a comprehensive primary source bank. The three cases in this chapter are drawn from three local discourse eras and banks: the Panther era (1966– 82); the gangster rap album era (1981–99); and the “hyphy” rap single era (2000–10). Specifically, the BPPSD (1969a) example, “The roots of the party,” is from a project source bank of 100 bppsd statements comprising over 700 pages of primary source material. The gangster rap example, 2Pac’s (1991a) “I Don’t Give a F*ck,” is from a near “universal,” local Oakland/East Bay sound bank of 100 albums, 1,306 songs, and 91.6 continuous hours. The “hyphy” example, Mac Dre’s (2005) “Thizzle Dance,” is from a project sound bank of 100 songs and 6.1 continuous hours.

violence, hustling, and contempt

193

While existing scholarship has paved the way for this research topic, much of the work has mainly relied on mainstream, filtered sources or the application of local sources in an effort to explain mainstream adoption and appeal (Chang 2005: 12–49; George 1998: 1–33; Rose 1994: 27–36). In Political Science, scholars have employed mainstream sources to judge exposure and attitudes (Dawson 2001; Harris-Lacewell 2004); evaluate rap’s many critics (Cohen 2010); and form studies based on public opinion sampling techniques (Spence 2011: 5, 23). Meanwhile, local intensive studies have primarily focused on rap’s birth or its gangster subgenre evolution in Los Angeles (LA) (Morgan 2009; Quinn 2005). Local intensive studies of Oakland rap have focused on cultural or identity analyses (Ciccariello-Maher and St. Andrews 2009; Harrison 2009). Other scholars have emphasized the importance of Oakland, BPPSD, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s (FBI’s) Counter intelligence Program (COINTELPRO) (Reeves 2008) but have all too often moved on to rap’s South Bronx, NY emergence (Reeves 2008: 15–28), returned to the local scene with MC Hammer (Reeves 2008: 112), and located 2Pac within the LA gangster rap “rebellion” (Reeves 2008: 155–66). Even outstanding scholarship on the regional or territorial nature of rap music does not tend to focus on the development of political content in such scenes (Forman 2000, 2002; Hess 2009). I submit that Oakland/Bay Area has been a response to a specific type of “trapped oppression” that should be of interest to scholars, politicians, and the American public because the underlying issues stem as far back as the Civil War Reconstruction, emigration, and enforcement. Since the mid-1860s, the Oakland/East Bay Area was understood as a black “promised land” (Crouchett et al. 1989; McBroome 1993). Northward and Westward Black Migration—specifically the Second Great Migration between the 1940s and the 1970s—brought about historical “pushes” en route to Oakland, Alameda, Richmond, and other Northern California locations (Trotter 1991: 107). This shift from the South to the North and West was a recurring theme in black America (Johnson and Campbell 1981; Lemann 1991; Mathieu 2009; O’Hare et al. 1982). The new black migrants were met with new forms of racism and began to experience the “now familiar” and recurring signs of “urban crisis” (such as an inability to effectively remove the old political guard, seething poverty and unfit housing, and police brutality). On one hand, this was a common and recurring theme in black American migration to Northern industrialized cities. Robert Self (2000: 760) has argued the “now familiar” elements of “urban crisis” were present in Oakland. Similar to other Northern cities, “all-white suburban enclaves industrialized, exercised new power in regional and countywide governing boards, and seemed to siphon both tax revenue and private capital away from older core cities.” Others have noted the inability to effectively remove the old political guards in

194

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

major cities such as Oakland, LA and Detroit, MI, “where at-large city council elections or gerrymandered districts minimized the black vote and kept African Americans politicians [sic] out of city government” (Gregory 2005: 268). In Oakland, there was a combination of an unrepresentative and unresponsive political machine, segregated labor unions, and what was eventually seen as seething police discrimination, harassment, and brutality targeted toward the black community. Yet, in 1960s Oakland, blacks were rapidly becoming a larger percentage of the population (with an overall decreasing population) (Bay Area Census 2010; U.S. Census Bureau Population Division 2012) and there was access to a rich educational network (Murch 2010: 3–7). Huey P. Newton and Bobby Seale, two community college students, decided to address the local problems and, in the process, framed the problems as a domestic and international “Black Colony” problem (Bloom and Martin 2013). Newton and Seale co-founded the BPPSD in West Oakland on October 15, 1966, obtained weapons for their organization in late November of 1966, and began a local trajectory of radical and militant discourse aimed at the “state.” In late November of 1966, Newton and Seale met with a man named Richard Masato Aoki who provided them with an M-1 shotgun and 9-millimeter handgun for free. Newton took the shotgun (because he could not carry a handgun due to probation) and Seale took the handgun (Austin 2006: 56). There has been a recent claim that Aoki was an undercover informant for the FBI (Rosenfeld 2012: 418–24), and this claim has been a point of local contention (San Francisco Bay View 2013). Yet, Newton and Seale did not seem to suspect any deviousness, and Seale described Aoki as “a Third World brother [they] knew, a Japanese radical cat” armed to the teeth (Seale 1970). The BPPSD leaders were targeted, beginning in the late 1960s, by the FBI’s COINTELPRO program, which had applied a long history of fighting White Hate groups since at least the 1920s, and communism since at least 1956. The FBI’s application of COINTELPRO in the late 1960s against the BPPSD was the last attempt in a long history of the FBI and its predecessor organizations attempting to stop post-Civil War White Hate groups and enforcing the Mann Act in the 1910s (Jeffreys-Jones 2007: 3–28; O’Reilly 1989: 23). The focus on Black Nationalists was evident as early as the 1920s by the time President Woodrow Wilson attempted to “cripple” Marcus Garvey’s “Back to Africa” movement (Riley 1999: 132–4). Efforts to stop communist organizations was evident as early as the 1920s, but it was officially applied through COINTELPRO in 1956 (Jeffreys-Jones 2007: 170–1). The late 1960s efforts to destroy “Black Hate Groups” made literal reference to stopping the rise of a “Black Messiah” (Glick 1989: 77–9). The likely candidate, Stokely Carmichael, became a figurehead in the BPPSD movement, and an all-out effort was made to stop the organization (Newton 1980).

violence, hustling, and contempt

195

The case of Panther discourse The BPPSD began with the politics of violence to achieve visibility. Their armed, media-driven response to the problems of West Oakland and East Oakland “black colonists” was mostly due to not being seen, heard, or recognized by the government or by other black organizations. Between 1967 and 1971, the Party mixed “revolutionary black nationalism with potent masculine street bravado to define something like a black territory” (Self 2000: 767–8) and distinguished their message from the Civil Rights Movement and other Black Power organizations. Oakland became “the location of race in both ideological and concrete space” (Self 2000: 767–8). This was in contrast to the leaders of the old Civil Rights Movement, which “fought the production of racial space as vehemently as they fought the production of race” (Self 2000: 768, emphasis in original). The BPPSD co-founders wished for a literal, alternative state, saw West Oakland as their answer to Washington, DC (a local political headquarters), used the locale to wage a war throughout American inner cities, and even envisioned extending the effort worldwide. Party membership peaked in 1969 after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination and urban riots to estimates of between 5,000 and 10,000 members (Asante and Mazama 2005; Booker 1998: 341; Johnson III 1998: 393–410), and Party newspaper circulation has been estimated at 250,000 copies (Asante and Mazama 2005: 135–7). While the Party was waging this war, they created equally important poor people’s initiatives in what they saw as “black colonies.” The Party headed at least 65 community programs and services from 1966 through 1982—including a variety of youth programs, health, nutrition, and disease awareness programs, legal aid programs, housing, food pantry, and clothing programs, and even sports programs (Black Panther Party Research Project 1999). The prototype for this Party framework can be found in Stokely Carmichael’s (1966) “Black Power” speech delivered in Berkeley, CA. He called for a national, militant organization of black youth to respond to the problems of the “black colonies.” Stokely Carmichael’s framework was the latest application of “internal colonization” (Blauner 1969; Gutiérrez 2004) rhetoric. He started by defining black colonial subjects and used detailed cases of struggles against racism. He discussed the problems of the “colonies of the United States” including “the black ghettoes within its borders” and stated that these colonies could only be liberated through a new self-determination, psychological equality, and by developing black power. He claimed that there was an attempt to wipe out the black race after slavery was abolished, that the institution of racism attempted to undermine the communal way of life from Africa, and that any new movement must avoid appeasement and must be an international campaign

196

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

stressing protection of the community. West Oakland would be the local headquarters for the domestic and international “vanguard of the revolutionary struggle” to end suffering due to exploitation, racism, and the reign of the black bourgeoisie. “The roots of the party” was a local application of the “Black Power” speech prototype (Black Panther Party 1969a). The article was an anonymously released (or unsigned) statement, and this was a common BPPSD discourse technique. The article began by stating that the “crucial difference” between the Party and “other black organizations” was that the BPPSD was “for the people, by the people and of the people.” The article declared that the Panther 10-point program was the answer to “the basic needs and desires of black people” and linked this program to similar “desires” through key black historical events: the beginning of American slavery in 1619; Nat Turner’s revolt in 1831; freedom from forced servitude in 1865; fighting the two World Wars starting in 1918 and 1941; and the black soldiers returning to America “only to find the same oppressive conditions.” The article claimed that blacks were “cheated after fighting another white man’s war in 1941, and the problems were the same: white racism, imperialism, capitalism and colonialism.” “The roots of the party” then turned to moments of black pride through insurrections such as: David Walker’s written “appeal to the slaves to organize and overthrow their masters by any means necessary”; Henry Garnet’s teaching that “submission to slavery was wrong and that black people should forget those who cautioned them against force and who said the [L]ord would provide” and that “God helps those who helps themselves”; and Robert F. Williams’s armed struggle to defend blacks against the “racist violence of the KKK [Ku Klux Klan].” Yet, the article also made the case that Walker was “murdered because his ideas were ‘dangerous,’” Garnet was “ignored,” and Williams was “forced into exile, just like [BPPSD Minister of Information] Elridge [sic] Cleaver.” These outcomes were connected to Newton’s recent imprisonment by stating that it was because the “power structure saw that he was building an organization of poor blacks with guns.” This led to the article’s key claim: Our Party looked at history and decided that the old ways weren’t good enough; that we could no longer afford to be nonviolent while the pig was killing us daily, that we could no longer allow white liberals to speak for black people because they didn’t know our problems; that black people must organize themselves, support themselves and defend themselves, like Malcolm X said: “There can be no black-white unity until there is black unity.” (Black Panther Party 1969a)

violence, hustling, and contempt

197

According to the article, Newton and Seale offered this solution. Newton observed that blacks lacked “freedom, jobs, decent housing, fair trials, food,” and access to a “good education,” and “he decided to do something about it.” Then Newton and Seale went door-to-door in West Oakland to assess the people’s wishes, which meant the program emanated “from the people.” Rather than stressing integration (“which automatically assumes black inferiority and white superiority”), capitalism (which brought slaves here to form a profit and then gave that profit to “Standard Oil”), and support for American society (such as black culturist and capitalist organizations), the BPPSD needed to focus on the failures of integration, the ineffective history of black capitalism, and the inability of black leaders to deal with reality. Another article released on the same day ended by attacking black capitalism as a means of disguising racism (Black Panther Party 1969a, b). “The roots of the party” claimed that while other black organizations stressed integration, capitalism, and support of American society, they were actually undermining and troublesome; the Nation of Islam (NOI) and cultural nationalist leaders were not poor, did not “deal with the reality of the pig in the streets or the real cause of why black people are poor and oppressed,” yet leaders such as Ron Karenga and Elijah Muhammad somehow expected to help black and poor masses. The article contended that there was a Third World colony in America and a need to deal with it totally through black transcendence rather than solutions offered by other black organizations—often leading the poor with rich leaders. It even offered threats such as: “We must let the pigs know we mean business that we can be even more cold-blooded than [Newton]” and “You may work all of your life and die broke.” The first threat was based on Newton’s imprisonment for the accused murder of an Oakland Police Department (OPD) officer. The second threat was to appeal to the black, working-class reader. Thus, “The roots of the party” connected black colonial suffering and noted key historical uses of militancy to achieve freedom as moments of black power, pride, and transcendence and called for similar struggles using elements of Marxist, Leninist, and Maoist theory. Marxism was deployed in the criticism of black capitalists and the dismissal of black cultural nationalists’ attempts to return to a historical stage from 300 years earlier. A critique of cultural nationalists selling $40 dashikis and black capitalism was a Leninist imperialist critique. Finally, the notion of power in poor people was influenced by Maoism, posing the question: “Isn’t it better to fight and die for a just cause instead of continuing to live in this racist Babylon?” In an effort to discredit the BPPSD, the FBI spearheaded a war against the Panthers. The Party claimed that within a year of President Richard Nixon taking office, 30 Panthers were killed, 400 were arrested, 19 BPPSD offices were attacked, and all members of the BPPSD Central Committee

198

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

were killed, jailed, or forced into exile (Black Panther Party, 1972). Part of the government campaign included the Justice Department’s creation of a special Panther taskforce and the director of the FBI (J. Edgar Hoover) denouncing the BPPSD as the “greatest single threat to national security” (Black Panther Party 1972). Although the FBI efforts took place within a larger scope of a COINTELPRO attempt at stopping the rise of a “black messiah,” and as the latest application of the FBI’s enduring fight against both black and white nationalist groups, the BPPSD also fit within the FBI’s anti-communist initiatives. The Party made it clear that it was not simply a matter of repression but rather the signs of a war when they stated: The Panthers are the target not of repression but of an undeclared war. Under a state of repression, the heretic at least is accorded bail, trial and appeal. In a state of a war, victims are killed or rounded up without serious regard for legal “niceties.” The Panthers held in jails across America today are no different from prisoners held in Santo Domingo, Saigon, or any other center of the American empire. (Black Panther Party 1972) By 1980, BPPSD membership was between 27 and 50 members (Austin 2006: 336; Delli Carpini 2000: 190), a 99 percent decrease from the membership peak in 1968. By 1982, the Party had been destroyed by both external factors (namely, application of COINTELPRO) and internal factors (Johnson III 1998) (rapid expansion, tactical disagreements, and Newton’s personal demise). Newton was charged with embezzling $600,000 in state funding (Stein and Basheda 1989). He was murdered in 1989 on the Oakland streets in an alleged attempt to buy drugs. After the fall of the Party, local rappers began to use the legacy of the BPPSD as a source of political authenticity. The continued failure of local officials to address crime, poverty, and worsening social conditions led to another situation in the 1980s and 1990s in which black youth felt invisible.

The case of gangster discourse In the 1980s and 1990s, local Oakland/Bay Area artists “branded” a form of gangster rap, transformed violence from the final frontier to the frontline to better achieve visibility, and added the concept of hustling as a necessary means of achieving equality. Rap music emerged on the local scene immediately after the fall of the BPPSD, developed in the wake of reality rap with the circulation of Too $hort’s bootlegs, demos, and unreleased products around 1981, strengthened after the first gangster rap albums in the mid-1980s, and developed into a robust brand of gangster rap by drawing

violence, hustling, and contempt

199

on fellow local artists’ politically—and socially—conscious rap and alternative rap leanings over the next two decades. Although Jeff Chang (2005: 410–41) has contended that the Oakland scene emerged in the late 1980s/ early 1990s, there is much evidence to support an earlier existence and a strong connection with the BPPSD. The local brand was heavily rooted in institutional and societal critiques, as other rappers and groups in the Bay Area added elements of Marxist critique by focusing on class divisions and institutional condemnation of capitalism. The two strands provided Oakland with a robust local sound that rivaled any other domestic location in the United States. My analysis of a local gangster rap brand is in no way intended to obscure or ignore the volume, complexity, and diversity of artists on the scene. As the Heiroglyphics (1997) self-proclaimed: “When we rock…We got 93 million, 5,000 flows and here’s one mo’!” The Oakland scene had many styles as well, but almost all were within, a response to, or a negation of the gangster style. This dual movement emanated out of the worsening local environment for the black underclass of Oakland’s “flatlands” during a period of gentrification, white flight and middle-class black flight, and falling per capita income. Control of violence and accumulation through hustling became the primary modes of urban power acquisition. This distinct local sound included direct “internal colonization” lyrics and a preponderance of “warfare” lyrics, sometimes packaged with militant and anti-statist artwork. Some local rappers in the 1980s and 1990s recognized the dilemma created by this mode of power acquisition, but passed the problems off as unfortunate consequences of being pushed to the limit. This communication created “an upside-down world where the oppressed [were] powerful” similar to what Kelley (1994: 187) found in the LA locale. Local rappers forced listeners to confront the realities of problems associated with the soaring murder rate, rising crack-cocaine epidemic, and increasing level of poverty as the norm in the locale rather than as aberrations experienced in other areas. A prototype can be found in the work of rap crews such as 415 and America’s Most Wanted (AMW). In 1988, 415 detailed an escape plan to head East when approached by a police car. Instead of surrendering, the group opened fire on the police “just for fun,” killed an officer, and remained at large on the Oakland streets (415 1988). Yet, the 1990 AMW case became the model for local rap about organized, violent resistance to law enforcement and led to other rappers pronouncing similar themes. Set to the beat of the Furious Five’s (1984) mildly confrontational rap battle song “Step Off,” AMW (1990) turned an instrumental used for a song without swearing into a local, cop killing anthem. AMW claimed to have “no respect for a punk and even less for the law” while “livin’ lethal as hell with no remorse for another life.” They then described a struggle over territory (“the beat is my street”) and warned undercover police to “think

200

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

twice” before entering their territory. AMW then explained that the police wanted to act “hard” as they rolled by, but in response, the group would be holding their penises and calling the police “gay.” This reference was reminiscent of Newton’s (August 15, 1970) stance on reserving what he saw as derogatory terms for law enforcement and preceded 2Pac’s homophobic derision of authority and other targets on songs such as “I Don’t Give a F*ck” (IDGAF) (2Pac 1991a). AMW’s ongoing homophobic slur continued as the rappers called the police “sweet and feminine” as they tried to jail the rap crew. However, AMW was not going to give in easily—as they would respond to police weapons by shooting into the cab of the squad car and making an example of the police. Such statements were on full albums, ranging from 45 minutes to 90 minutes. So, in many ways, the topics and messages of a group such as 415 and AMW must be multiplied tenfold to account for the rest of the songs on their albums. 2Pac’s 1991 “IDGAF” and 2Pacalypse Now emerged within this milieu and established a standard for the local gangster sound. Recorded at Starlight Sound Studios in Richmond, CA in summer and early fall of 1991 and released on November 12, 1991, “IDGAF” was 4 minutes and 20 seconds, was track 4 of 13 tracks on 2Pacalypse Now, and one of many containing political messages on an album running over 55 minutes. For example, on another song, “Trapped,” 2Pac (1991b) fell just short of making a direct reference to Gunnar Myrdal and Bok’s (1944) findings in An American Dilemma. Myrdal’s concept entailed a “self-fulfilling prophesy” in which blacks were oppressed by whites and then blamed for being poor, thus justifying the oppression. 2Pac’s lyrics picked up on this trap and said something about it. The rapper appropriated the term “vicious cycle” to describe a circle of oppression, reactions, and then explanations for further oppression. However, 2Pac also “compared his lyrics to the television coverage of the Vietnam War” and hoped that by showing the “most graphic details” the type of urban strife he rapped about would end (Golus 2006: 44). “IDGAF” is more extreme and a better reflection of the lengths local rappers would go to speak about violence, poverty, and social turmoil (2Pac 1991a). Earlier in the year, he was arrested for jaywalking in Oakland and filed a “police brutality claim”; the song and album were responses to what he understood as race-based harassment by local authorities (Donalson 2007: 91). Historically, 2Pac’s responses stand nearly in the middle of Oakland Panther, gangster, and “hyphy” discourses—coming 25 years after the creation of the BPPSD, in the middle of gangster discourse, and 22 years before contemporary discourse. The introduction to “IDGAF” began with a phone ringing, and when 2Pac answered, three friends gave accounts of local police harassment in very coded slang (2Pac 1991a). Each caller gave his name and stated that the “rollers” (police) tried to “jack” (arrest and possibly rob) them

violence, hustling, and contempt

201

for different reasons in different locations: riding a “coupe on gold” (a car with rims); playing music too loud; and drinking beer. The first two locations were indecipherable, but the last location was in Mill Valley, CA, near 2Pac’s hometown of Marin, CA. The last caller was Pogo, who also rapped on part of the song’s first verse and spoke on the song’s outro. The first verse began with 2Pac explaining why he does “give a f*ck,” as he had been pushed to his limit. When he reacted and “blew up,” he was pushed into the back of a police car while the police officer bragged about the arrest. Instead of justice, 2Pac claimed to simply see young blacks “dyin’ fast” and being put into “hearsts” due to gun shot “blasts.” 2Pac explained that on a typical day, he had to walk carefully, because police officers tried to “snipe” him. Then 2Pac turned to racism from other sources, as he attempted to cash his check and claimed he would “get more respect” from a drug dealer and also noted that the music award shows attempted to “pimp” blacks like “h**s.” 2Pac advised his listeners to “keep [their] mind[s] on the real sh*t” instead of appealing to such “crooked *ss hypocrites.” The rapper claimed his mother warned him that there would be “days like this,” but that he was “pissed ’cause it [stayed] like this”; this was not just a bad day, but instead an ongoing (and perhaps permanent) American nightmare. 2Pac then directly addressed the political system as he rapped “now they trying to ship me off to Kuwait” and responded “Gimme a break / How much sh*t can a n*gg* take.” In his next lines, he rapped that he “ain’t goin’ nowhere no how,” called out President George Herbert Walker Bush to “throw down,” and warned that he better bring his gun and called him “pal.” 2Pac threatened that “this is the day” to make them pay, and then he made a direct reference to manual labor—instead of “bailin” hay, he planned to “bail and spray” with an AK-47 assault rifle. Yet, 2Pac continued his warning by stating that even if they “shoot him dead” that there would be “another n*gg* bigger” from the underground. The rapper urged his targets above to “step quick” because he was a ticking time-bomb and a “psycho-path” in the making. At the end of the first verse, 2Pac mockingly questioned: “Who’s that behind the trigger? / Who do you figure?” He answered that it was a “1990s n*gg*” and claimed that he has had enough and simply did not “give a f*ck.” While 2Pac uttered these last words, his guest rapper Pogo began emphasizing it was not only “just the blacks” but “also a gang…dressed in blue slacks,” referring to the police force. While the police said that blacks “hang in packs” and have “sh*tt*” attitudes, Pogo questioned who was the “biggest gang of n*gg*s in the city?” He then compared himself to a police officer, with the badge as the only difference. Pogo then threatened to shoot the officer, “bash his head in,” and “dump him at the Dead Inn.” After Pogo reiterated that he did not “really give a f*ck,” 2Pac began rapping again and addressed racism in market and

202

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

society. At the end of the verse, he uttered a thinly veiled connection to the BPPSD: “And if you look between the lines / You’ll find a line as strong as a f*ck*n’ nine” (a 9-millimeter handgun). 2Pac advised black youth to remain strong, “run the block” and keep their “heads up” even while growing “fed up.” At the end of the song, 2Pac voiced a series of “f*ck offs” addressed to the San Francisco Police Department; the Marin County Sheriff Department; the FBI; the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA); the B-U-S-H (President George Herbert Walker Bush); the “AmeriKan K-Ka” (the KKK); and all “redneck prejudice muth*f*ck*rs that wanted to f*ck him.” As 2Pac voiced this list, Pogo was in the background jeering and repeatedly stating “You’re number one”—as a sort of underground-formed Most Wanted Listed. As if this were not enough to make his point heard, 2Pac ended by calling the members of the list above “Punk, gay, sensitive little d*ck b*st*rds” and told them that they could “kiss [his] *ss,” “s*ck [his] d*ck,” and his Uncle Tommy’s b*lls.” 2Pac then repeated the word “punks” five times. While he was voicing the derogatory, homophobic, and derisive references to his rear and genitals, Pogo was once again in the background—this time emphasizing the words “tiny, tiny d*ck.” This album was blamed in the shooting of a police officer in Texas, and it prompted a response by Vice President Dan Quayle (Golus 2006: 43–4). It became a flagship of the gangster rap subgenre of music locally, elsewhere, and has been represented in multiple media formats. The song was partly used by 2Pac’s character in film (Dickerson 1992). It was also sampled by Detroit rapper Eminem (Eminem 1997). It was also used as the first song in the popular video game Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas on the fictional radio station Radio Los Santos. In the video game, after the deejay/host (former real-world LA 93.5 KDAY radio host Julio G) plays the full-unedited song, he states that he should have had the radio-edit (clean version) of the song and will likely receive a fine from the Federal Communications Commission (Rockstar North 2004). From this mere example, it is clear that 2Pac—a bloodline heir to the BPPSD—began mixing gangster rap with politically and socially conscious messages. He eventually released five highly influential studio albums. 2Pac is best known for his rap music that emerged in the early to mid-1990s and after his murder in 1996. Yet, all but two of his releases were based in Oakland’s hybrid, politically conscious/gangster rap style (2Pac 1996; Makaveli 1996). The remainder of his studio albums were recorded in the early 1990s when he was based in Oakland. Thus, 2Pac is understood as a local hero killed by Southern Californians in Las Vegas, NV. In the gangster rap era, many local rappers pronounced the condition of being trapped in inner-city locales and framed this oppression within the framework of an American nightmare. These rappers often used warfare lyrics to demonstrate how the local police harassed the inner-city community, to rap about

violence, hustling, and contempt

203

battles with law enforcement, and “all-out” efforts at evading the law. While these topics may have been used elsewhere, Oakland’s discussion occurred early, often, and in a tremendously potent form. This local groundwork influenced a full development of a new local sound in the Bay Area.

The case of hyphy discourse In the late 1990s and early 2000s, a new micro-genre now known as “hyphy” music applied the use of violence to achieve visibility, applied hustling to achieve equality, and added contempt to achieve respect. The term “hyphy” was used by Keak da Sneak in 1997 (3X Krazy 1997) and as early as 1994. He had put a label on sound that really did not have an official name. The music is defined by up-tempo, futuristic instrumentals and messages aimed at subversion of public space and disregard of authority.2 The sound was developed in the local album stage era of the 1990s and even the 1980s. As one of the most influential artists, Mac Dre was the poster-child for this movement and later its martyr—much like Newton and 2Pac of prior eras. Mac Dre released over 30 albums and became the centerpiece of the hyphy sound (DJ VLAD 2008). Mac Dre’s rap career was relegated to the underground, and he only gained national and worldwide fame posthumously. He was born in Oakland but was mostly based out of Vallejo, CA, releasing three studio albums in the late 1980s and early 1990s. In 1992, he was charged with conspiracy to commit robbery after he refused to cooperate with law enforcement and was sentenced to serve five years in the Fresno County jail. While in jail, he recorded two full albums—Back N Da Hood and Young Black Brotha by way of telephone (Mac Dre 1992, 1993). Upon release, his music evolved from the gangster subgenre into a new style eventually known as “hyphy.” Mac Dre turned to rapping about money as a means to protect himself from the police and efforts to reclaim public space. On the second verse of “Toyz,” he rapped: Money burns a hole in me pocket / Everything I see and want I got to cop it / Flip it, whip it, swang it, dip it / Whip’s new or old as Mr. Lipid / Candy paint job lookin’ syrupy / Canvas top on my Cougar Mercury / In me, nut me, like to swing eights / Two more whips is European V8’s Certain hyphy messages pioneered by Mac Dre (such as “going dumb,” “retarded,” and “5-1-5-0”) have been the subject of criticism by scholars. For instance, Bell (2011, 141–2) has connected these sentiments to disability and critical race theories in the United States and stopped to comment on the “hyphy sound.” Bell makes comparisons between hyphy music and a popular Black Eyed Peas song in terms of “derisive” meaning and disability. 2

204

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

/ I buys Toys / 4.6’s, 745’s / Excursions, Navigators / Put slump in ’em and wake up the neighbors / Shake up the neighbors every time they see me / I make toys appear like a genie / Any time I see the boys / I dose, get ghost in one of my toys. (Mac Dre and Andre Nickatina 2006) There was a subversive layer under the elements of capitalist acquisition and frivolous spending on new cars, classic custom cars, and paint jobs. Below the surface, Mac Dre was also rapping about attempts to “wake up the neighbors,” perform stunts in the streets, and, most notably, to outrun the “boys” (the police, or, specifically, the OPD). Mac Dre’s impact on the scene, however, was fully established through his instructional material on exactly how to perform a series of tactics such as “ghostridin’” while still being careful to avoid the police. On verse two of “Thizzle Dance,” he rapped: First of all / I hope you got you a juice / A thizzle because it’s time to pop you a few / Then you gas break start to dip / Bounce wit the car as it starts to shift / Open up the door, there goes the whole damn car load / Hop out and follow while you let the car roll / Ghost ride the whip while you ride the strip / Here’s your chance to do your dance on the side of it / While you at it, the passenger and driver switch / Then hurry up and jump back inside this sh*t / Hangin’ out the rooftop / Do not get oo-op by them foo cops / That tryin’ to have you got / Other than that you and your boys coon big / You wanna learn coon stay tune to Thizz / Hoochie mama freaks get yo man / And show them n*gg*s how to do the thizzle dance. (Mac Dre 2005) The instructions were as follows: get a drink; pop a few low-grade ecstasy pills; drive erratically; let the car roll forward while hopping out on “the strip” (likely East 14th Street back then and International Boulevard now); perform dances while the car is rolling forward; and, most of all, avoid being arrested by jealous police officers trying to take your property. His phrase “other than that you and your boys coon big” further established the police as an (or the only) annoyance that you had to deal with while performing these tricks. Taken a step further, Mac Dre’s music was the next wave on the “potent masculine street bravado” to reclaim “a black territory” as discussed in the context of the BPPSD by Self (2000: 768). The Bay Area Rapid Transit, highway systems, the lake, flatlands, and surrounding East Bay area were for the taking through public displays such as “sideshows,” “ghostridin’,” “stunting,” and other non-vehicular activities. Unlike the BPPSD discourse, it did not really require an ideological commitment to

violence, hustling, and contempt

205

be effective. If Mac Dre’s music could inspire youth in the Bay Area to pull these same tricks and stunts, his subversive message would be effective. His purpose was to remain flippant in the face of power and to encourage others to join him. Thus, police departments (the Oakland, Vallejo, and fictional examples) were discussed as a mere nuisance. Mac Dre also used recordings to publicly disgrace the officers and detectives working on his case. This was reminiscent of the BPPSD’s simplistic casting of all authorities as “pigs” and a section from one of their newsletters: “If you do not mind, the pigs do not matter” (Black Panther Party 1969c, emphasis removed). This micro-genre of music did not gain outside popular and commercial appeal until the mid-2000s. When J-Diggs, one of the thankful beneficiaries of Mac Dre’s unwillingness to “snitch,” was released from prison, he created one of the flagship songs of the micro-subgenre by rapping on a sample from the Ghostbusters theme song (Reitman 1984). J-Diggs’s “Ghost Ride It (featuring Mistah F.A.B. and Dem Hoodstarz)” began with the following message: Look, the streets know what just this is / Ghostride the whip up and down the strip / The ghostbustas, they the police / Always wanna pull a n*gg* over for his piece / Not me, I get in a scrape / Tire marks on the street lookin’ like figure eights. (J-Diggs 2008) The chorus featured a call-and-response about getting a new car and immediately taking it to the streets to practice ghostriding. The song called on the streets to help define this practice and to avoid the “ghostbusters” (or police) by peeling out—leaving tire marks in the streets. J-Diggs’s record was released during the popularization (perhaps commercialization) of hyphy music. Yet, the action took place on the streets, commented on the harassment from police officers while carrying a gun, and repeatedly bragged about being able to outrun the police. Even while growing in wide-ranging appeal, the song contained hidden and shared messages about police harassment, armament, and reclaiming of public space.3 Even the album cover displayed illegal “ghostridin’” activity by featuring an image of men hopping on top of a car moving down the street. Meanwhile, the Ghostride the Whip documentary provided an essential “crash course” on the hyphy movement’s political roots, history, and development (DJ VLAD 2008). This song became one of the highest levels of hyphy music. This cover art alone distinguished the Oakland/East Bay product from music produced elsewhere. An active, local “sideshow” was strutted in E-40’s (2006) My Ghetto Report Card; Mac Dre mocked a number of U.S. presidents on posthumous albums such as Ronald Dregan: Dreganomics and Pill Clinton (Mac Dre 2004, 2007). 3

206

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

One of the first responses to this song happened before the official release of the song, and this is a sign that underground rappers are sometimes able to anticipate growing trends and react to them. Beeda Weeda’s (2008) “I Don’t Ghostride (featuring Shady Nate and Kaz Kyzah)” responded to the rising street and radio popularity of J-Diggs’s “Ghost Ride It” by discrediting the impulse to ghostride in the streets. Instead of “ghostridin’,” Beeda Weeda’s chorus repeated: “I don’t ghostride / [I] Keep a thumper under the seat.” The rapper could not perform the stunts, tricks, and erratic driving associated with ghostriding because he was carrying a gun in his car to protect himself. If he were to raise suspicion, he would be arrested. Later, Hoodstarz’s (2010a) “Speedin’ (featuring San Quinn and Big Seff)” described “swervin’ in and out of lanes” trying to return to the “trap” (or drug house) during which they continued to ride on the “white bumps” in between lanes, drive drunk, and look out for the “flashy lights” of the police cars. Hoodstarz’s (2010b) “Thang Cocked (featuring Yukmouth)” featured a chorus sampled from R&B megastar Akon that repeated the lines “When my thang cock / When my thang cock / When my thang cock / Disobeyin’ the law” six times. In one verse, the rappers lamented over the overdue prison release of one of their friends; two other incarcerated friends; and two other murdered friends. They continued by rapping, “F*ck the law / Ridin’ dirty” and by describing their crew and guns within the vehicle. The hyphy lyrics about weed, ecstasy, and street actions (“sideshows,” “ghostridin’,” “stuntin’”) flaunted this culture in the face of the authorities. Rapper E-40 has described the hyphy street actions as “campaignin’” (DJ VLAD 2008). Beside video clips of individuals dancing atop parades of rolling cars on the highway and peeling away from local police officers after performing automobile tricks, the concept of a “campaign” is a useful characterization. It was localized in a particular area (neighborhood), it was organized, and it was aimed at a particular goal. This goal was the contempt of state authority to gain respect. On November 1, 2004, Mac Dre was killed in Kansas City, MO when a car pulled up to his tour van and opened fire. Even after his death and the partial adoption of hyphy by the mainstream, some local artists began to form a significant rebellion against hyphy by using its style but reforming the messages to highlight the violence, economic conditions, and social turmoil in the locale. It continues to this day.

Conclusion: Violence, hustling, and contempt The Oakland rap scene is a vital response to a particular form of trapped repression, which evolved into the politics of violence, hustling, and contempt. While a handful of local rap artists reached audiences outside of Oakland, the vast majority of local rap artists remained contained in the

violence, hustling, and contempt

207

East Bay/San Francisco Bay Area underground. Similar to the protagonist in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, the rappers and their problems were not visible to the American public because the public refused to see the problems. The protagonist in Invisible Man began by claiming that he was rendered invisible because society refused to see him (Ellison 1952). Although high-ranking government officials, Critical Race Scholars, and the outside public have recognized the music from this local scene, none of these entities have taken the political content seriously. As some scholars of American political development begin to frame race as a central component driving institutional change rather than as a mere aside (Lowndes et al. 2008: 23), I find it essential to develop a framework for understanding the politics of marginalized youth within American inner cities and the possible attachments to the late Black Power Movement. The BPPSD had offices in most major and mid-sized American cities, attached their message to issues reaching back to slavery and Reconstruction, and were partly destroyed by an initiative headed by the U.S. President’s Office. The Oakland example in this chapter is merely one example of America’s other internal colonies and signals the importance of exploring the political content of other U.S. locales.

References 2Pac. 1991a. “I Don’t Give a Fuck (IDGAF).” 2Pacalypse Now. Jive/Interscope/ Priority. —1991b. “Trapped.” 2Pacalypse Now. Jive/Interscope/Priority. —1996. “All Eyez On Me.” All Eyez On Me (Books 1 + 2). Death Row Records. 3X Krazy. 1997. “Stackin Chips.” Stackin’ Chips. Virgin. 415. 1988. “415in.” 41Fivin. Big League Records, Inc. America’s Most Wanted (AMW). 1990. “Gangster Shit.” Criminals. Triad Records. Asante, Molefi Kete and Mambo Ama Mazama. 2005. Encyclopedia of Black Studies. Los Angeles: Sage Publications, Incorporated. Austin, Curtis J. 2006. Up Against the Wall: Violence in the Making and Unmaking of the Black Panther Party. Fayetteville, AR: University of Arkansas Press. Bay Area Census. 2010. City of Oakland: Alameda County. MTC-ABAG Library 2010 (cited July 4, 2010). http://census.abag.ca.gov/cities/Oakland; http:// census.abag.ca.gov/cities/Oakland50.htm; http://census.abag.ca.gov/cities/ Oakland70.htm (accessed March 3, 2014). Beeda Weeda, featuring Shady Nate and Kaz Kyzah. 2008. “I Don’t Ghostride.” In Da Thizzness. SMC Recordings/Town Thizzness. Bell, Christopher M. 2011. Blackness and Disability: Critical Examinations and Cultural Interventions. Münster, Germany: Lit Verlag.

208

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Black Panther Party for Self Defense (BPPSD). May 25, 1969a. “The roots of the party.” The Black Panther 3(5): 4. —May 25, 1969b. “To the people.” The Black Panther 3(5): 8. —May 25, 1969c. “Why Huey.” The Black Panther 3(5): 2. —June 10, 1972. “From resistance to liberation.” The Black Panther: Black Community News Service: 17–18. Black Panther Party Research Project. 1999. Black Panther Party Community Programs 1966–1982 (cited May 3, 2012). http://www.stanford.edu/group/ blackpanthers/programs.shtml (accessed March 18, 2014). Blauner, Robert. 1969. “Internal colonialism and ghetto revolt.” Social Problems 16(4): 393–408. Bloom, Joshua and Waldo E. Martin, Jr. 2013. Black Against Empire: The History and Politics of the Black Panther Party. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Booker, Chris. 1998. “Lupenization: A Critical Error of the Black Panther Party.” In Charles E. Jones, ed., The Black Panther Party Reconsidered, pp. 337–62. Baltimore, MD: Black Classic Press. Carmichael, Stokely. October 29, 1966. “Black Power.” Speech delivered in Berkeley, CA. Chang, Jeff. 2005. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: Picador. Ciccariello-Maher, George and Jeff St. Andrews. 2009. “Between Macks and Panthers: Hip Hop in Oakland and San Francisco.” In Mickey Hess, ed., Hip Hop in America: A Regional Guide, pp, 257–86. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Cohen, Cathy J. 2010. Democracy Remixed: Black Youth and the Future of American Politics. New York: Oxford University Press. Crouchett, Lawrence P., Lonnie G. Bunch, and Martha Kendall Winnacker. 1989. Visions Toward Tomorrow: The History of the East Bay Afro-American Community, 1852–1977. Oakland, CA: Northern California Center for Afro-American History and Life. Dawson, Michael C. 2001. Black Visions: The Roots of Contemporary AfricanAmerican Political Ideologies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Delli Carpini, Michael X. 2000. “Black Panther Party: 1966–1982.” In Immanuel Ness and James Ciment, eds, The Encyclopedia of Third Parties in America, pp. 190–7. Armonke, NY: Sharpe Reference. Dickerson, Ernest R. 1992. Juice. United States: Island World. Motion picture. DJ VLAD. 2008. Ghostride the Whip. United States: Egami. Motion picture. Donalson, Melvin Burke. 2007. Hip Hop in American Cinema. New York: Peter Lang. E-40. 2006. My Ghetto Report Card. Sic Wid It. Ellison, Ralph. 1952. Invisible Man (Vol. 338). New York: Random House Incorporated. Eminem. 1997. “Just Don’t Give a Fuck.” The Slim Shady EP. Web Entertainment. FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) 2009. Table 8—California, Offenses Known to Law Enforcement by State by City, 2009 (cited October 4, 2012). http:// www2.fbi.gov/ucr/cius2009/data/table_08_ca.html (accessed March 20, 2014). —2010. Table 8—California, Offenses Known to Law Enforcement by State by

violence, hustling, and contempt

209

City, 2010 (cited October 4, 2012). http://www.fbi.gov/about-us/cjis/ucr/crimein-the-u.s/2010/crime-in-the-u.s.-2010/tables/table-8/10tbl08ca.xls (accessed March 20, 2014). Forman, Murray. 2000. “‘Represent’: race, space and place in rap music.” Popular Music 19(1): 65–90. —2002. The ’Hood Comes First: Race, Space, and Place in Rap and Hip-Hop. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Furious Five. 1984. “Step Off.” Step Off (VLS). Sugar Hill Records. George, Nelson. 1998. Hip Hop America. New York: Viking. Glaser, Barney G. and Anselm L. Autor Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Hawthorne, NY: Aldine de Gruyter. Glick, Brian. 1989. The War at Home: Covert Action Against U.S. Activists and What We Can Do About It. Boston: South End Press. Golus, Carrie. 2006. Tupac Shakur: Just the Facts Biographies Series. Minneapolis, MN: Lerner Publishing Group. Gregory, James N. 2005. The Southern Diaspora: How the Great Migrations of Black and White Southerners Transformed America. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Gubrium, Jaber F. and James A. Holstein. 1997. The New Language of Qualitative Method. New York: Oxford University Press. Gutiérrez, Ramón A. 2004. “Internal colonialism: an American theory of race.” Du Bois Review: Social Science Research on Race 1(2): 281–95. Hanchard, Michael George. 2006. Party/Politics: Horizons in Black Political Thought, Transgressing Boundaries. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Harris-Lacewell, Melissa Victoria. 2004. Barbershops, Bibles, and BET: Everyday Talk and Black Political Thought. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Harrison, Anthony Kwame. 2009. Hip Hop Underground: The Integrity and Ethics of Racial Identification. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Hess, Mickey. 2009. Hip Hop in America: A Regional Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood. Hieroglyphics. 1997. “Miles to the Sun.” 3rd Eye Vision. Hieroglyphics Imperium. Hoodstarz, featuring San Quinn and Big Seff. 2010a. “Speedin’.” The Tonight Show with the Hoodstarz. Fresh In the Flesh Music/Filmz. Hoodstarz, featuring Yukmouth 2010b. “Thang Cocked.” The Tonight Show With the Hoodstarz. Fresh In the Flesh Music/Filmz. InsideBayArea.com. December 22, 2006. Two More Deaths Bring Toll Up to 148 (cited February 27, 2007). http://www.insidebayarea.com/search/ci_4885094 (accessed March 20, 2014). J-Diggs, featuring Mistch F.A.B. and Dem Hoodstarz. 2008. “Ghost Ride It.” Ghostride the Whip. Thizz Ent. Jeffreys-Jones, Rhodri. 2007. The FBI: A History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Johnson, Daniel M. and Rex R. Campbell. 1981. Black Migration in America: A Social Demographic History. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Johnson, Scott C. October 21, 2010. “Living in ‘a War-Zone Neighborhood’:

210

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Safer to Be Deployed to a Military Base in War Torn Region than Survive on Oakland Streets.” Oakland Tribune. Johnson III, Ollie A. 1998. “Explaining the Demise of the Black Panther Party: The Role of Internal Factors.” In Charles E. Jones, ed., The Black Panther Party Reconsidered, pp. 391–417. Baltimore, MD: Black Classic Press. Kelley, Robin D. G. 1994. “Kickin’ Reality, Kickin’ Ballistics.” In Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class, pp. 183–227. New York: Free Press. Lemann, Nicholas. 1991. The Promised Land: The Great Black Migration and How It Changed America. New York: Vintage. Lowndes, Joseph, Julie Novkov, and Dorian T. Warren. 2008. “Race and American Political Development.” In Race and American Political Development, pp.1–30. New York and London: Routledge. Mac Dre. 1992. Back N Da Hood. Thizz. —1993. Young Black Brotha. Strickly Business Records. —2004. Ronald Dregan: Dreganomics. Sumo/Thizz Entertainment. —2005. “Thizzle Dance.” Don’t Hate the Player, Hate the Game #2. Thizz Nation. —2007. Pill Clinton. Thizz Entertainment. Mac Dre and Andre Nickatina. 2006. “Toyz” (Unreleased). Tale of II Andres. Thizz Entertainment. Makaveli. 1996. The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory: Death Row Records. Malone, Christopher and George Martinez, Jr. 2010. “The organic globalizer: the political development of hip-hop and the prospects for global transformation.” New Political Science 32(4): 531–45. Mathieu, Sarah-Jane (Saje). 2009. “The African American Great Migration reconsidered.” Organization of American Historians Magazine of History 23(4): 19–23. McBroome, Delores Nason. 1993. Parallel Communities: African-Americans in California’s East Bay, 1850–1963. New York: Garland Publishers. Morgan, Marcyliena. 2009. The Real Hiphop: Battling for Knowledge, Power, and Respect in the LA Underground. Durham, NC: Duke University Press Books. Murch, Donna Jean. 2010. Living for the City: Migration, Education, and the Rise of the Black Panther Party in Oakland, California. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Myrdal, Gunnar and Sissela Bok. 1944. An American Dilemma: The Negro Problem and Modern Democracy. (Vol. 2). Piscataway, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Newton, Huey P. 1980. “War Against the Panthers: A Study of Repression in America.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California at Santa Cruz. —2002. “The Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation Movements: August 15, 1970.” In David Hilliard and Donald Weise, eds, The Huey P. Newton Reader, pp. 157–60. New York: Seven Stories Press. Oakland Police Department. 2010. Summary of Part 1 Crime Offenses, 1969–2008. City of Oakland California 2008 (cited July 4, 2010) http:// gismaps.oaklandnet.com/crimewatch/pdf/HistoricalData.htm (accessed March 25, 2014).

violence, hustling, and contempt

211

O’Hare, William P., Phillip Sawicki, and Joint Center for Political Studies. 1982. Blacks on the Move: A Decade of Demographic Change—From a Report Prepared by William P. O’Hare...[et al.]. Washington, DC: Joint Center for Political Studies. O’Reilly, Kenneth. 1989. Racial Matters: The FBI’s Secret File on Black America, 1960–1972. New York and London: Free Press; Collier Macmillan. Pope, H. Lavar. 2012. “Internal Colonization and Revolt: Rap as an Underground Political Discourse in Oakland, CA from 1965–2010.” Ph.D. dissertation, University of California at Santa Cruz. Quinn, Eithne. 2005. Nothing but a “G” Thing: The Culture and Commerce of Gangsta Rap. New York: Columbia University Press. Reeves, Marcus. 2008. Somebody Scream! Rap Music’s Rise to Prominence in the Aftershock of Black Power. New York: Faber and Faber. Reitman, Ivan. 1984. Ghost Busters. United States: Columbia Pictures. Motion picture. Riley, Russell L. 1999. The Presidency and the Politics of Racial Inequality: Nation-Keeping from 1831 to 1965, Power, Conflict, and Democracy. New York: Columbia University Press. Rockstar North. 2004. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Leslie Benzies. Video game. Rose, Tricia. 1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Rosenfeld, Seth. 2012. Subversives: The FBI’s War on Student Radicals, and Reagan’s Rise to Power. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Rufus, Anneli. January 30, 2008. “You Will Get Erased.” East Bay Express. San Francisco Bay View. 2013. An Analysis of Seth Rosenfeld’s FBI Files on Richard Aoki, (cited July 4, 2013), http://sfbayview.com/2012/an-analysis-ofseth-rosenfelds-fbi-files-on-richard-aoki (accessed March 22, 2014). Scott, James C. 1985. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Seale, Bobby. 1970. Seize Time: The Story of the Black Panther Party and Huey P. Newton. New York: Random House. Self, Robert O. 2000. “To plan our liberation.” Journal of Urban History 26(6): 759–92. Spence, Lester K. 2011. Stare in the Darkness: The Limits of Hip-Hop and Black Politics. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Stein, Mark A. and Valerie Basheda. August 22, 1989. “Huey Newton Found Shot to Death on Oakland Street: Black Panthers Founder Killed in High Drug Area.” LA Times. Telegraph. 2013. “Marco Rubio Disputes Lil Wayne’s Claim that He’s ‘The New Tupac.’” Business Insider: Politics Contributors. New York: Business Insider. com. TMZ Staff. February 26, 2013. “Senator Marco Rubio: Lil Wayne Ain’t NO Tupac.” http://www.tmz.com/videos/0_0zd9k93s (accessed March 18, 2013). Trotter, Joe William. 1991. The Great Migration in Historical Perspective: New Dimensions of Race, Class, and Gender. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. U.S. Census Bureau Population Division. Census of Population and Housing. U.S.

212

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Census Bureau, Population Divison 2012 (cited November 1, 2012). http:// www.census.gov/prod/www/abs/decennial/1970cenpopv1.html (accessed March 15, 2014). Venkatesh, Sudhir Alladi. 2005. Off the Books: The Underground Economy of the Urban Poor. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The belly of the beast Keesha M. Middlemass

Editors’ note In “The belly of the beast,” Keesha Middlemass gives us an extraordinary look at the intersection of hip hop and the prison industrial complex. The street and prison are interconnected, Middlemass contends, and in the face of the social injustices experienced across these spaces hip hop offers a platform that identifies the voice of those disregarded by society. Utilizing in-depth interviews and participant-observations from a two-year ethnographic study in Newark, NJ, Middlemass details how hip hop has been used as a vehicle to communicate painful experiences shaped by incarceration, while simultaneously raising cultural awareness about the prison industrial complex. Middlemass’ research is an important contribution to recognizing marginalized voices because the role of identity, “being a man,” and the hyper-masculine culture of prison strongly suggests that feeling one’s experiences is taboo. However, it is acceptable to convey one’s feelings through music and art. Middlemass argues that hip hop offers a respectable arena that gives voice to the prison experience and agency to a generation of ostracized people living in predominantly poor and disenfranchised communities who have been negatively affected by the criminal justice system. Hip hop artists have brought their prison encounters to the street, and through their lyrics demonstrate the harsh reality of punishing people and locking them up in cages. As Robin Kelley noted, prisons are not designed to discipline but to corral bodies labeled menaces to society and then manage those caged bodies. Hip hop is a means to express one’s philosophy of life; in doing so it juxtaposes prison with a cultural outlet

214

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

to interrogate the psychological violence and trauma of living under the constant glare of the criminal justice system. ***

Introduction The “beast” of the belly refers to the punitive criminal justice system, and the “belly” of the beast is the harsh world of prison. The “belly of the beast” could be any state or federal prison in the United States, but some prisons stand out as the belly of the beast in a particular state or within the federal prison system. For instance, in Rahway, New Jersey, East Jersey State Prison, formerly known as Rahway State Prison, is the belly of the beast in New Jersey due to its brutality and punitive control mechanisms.1 The Tryon Residential Facility for Boys in New York State is the belly of the beast for state institutions in New York, and is now closed due to its harsh treatment of juvenile detainees. Bloody Beaumont, a federal prison in Beaumont, Texas, is the belly of the beast in the federal prison system for its riots and the number of inmates physically hurt or killed. The commonalities among these prisons, and other state and federal bellies of the beast across the United States, are their brutality, violence, cruelty, and callous disregard for the physical and mental well-being of the inmates housed there. The first time that the phrase the “belly of the beast” appeared in print was in the title of Jack Abbott’s (1981) book In the Belly of the Beast: Letters from Prison. In this work, Abbott conveys the realities of breathing and living inside a federal prison and the Utah State Penitentiary in Draper, Utah, both of which were maximum security. It is believed that Abbott never spoke directly of his fear and feelings about living inside prison (see Gado n.d.), and his account of prison life unfolded in a series of letters he wrote to Norman Mailer.2 Through these letters, a weird friendship developed between the world-famous writer and a convicted killer turned writer (Gado n.d.). Abbott conveyed what prison life was like by describing how he suppressed his sheer terror and hardened himself to the reality of prison, including its violence, the dread, and the hypermasculine environment, which is analogous to living a nightmare (Abbott Rahway State Prison is also known because of one of its more famous inmates, Rubin Carter, a professional boxer whom Bob Dylan immortalized in his song, “Hurricane,” in 1975, and the film The Hurricane, starring Denzel Washington in 1999. 2 Mailer was a respected novelist, journalist, and literary critic in the 1950s and 1960s, who created the genre known as “new journalism” that overlays literary fiction’s style and tools onto fact-based journalism. He is best known for his works The Executioner’s Song (1979) and The White Negro (1957). 1



The belly of the beast

215

1981). Abbott had no job experience, but as he had spent time in juvenile detention centers and most of his adult life behind bars, he was an expert on prison life, so he wrote about what he knew. Mailer was so taken with the gritty reality of Abbott’s writing that he supported his early release from prison. With Mailer’s support, Abbott was released on parole, moved to New York City, and welcomed as a literary hero into elite writing and publishing circles. His writing style was called “radical chic,” a style that merged a peculiar mix of hard-line fanatical or militant politics with haute society. Abbott was cheered for bringing society’s collective fascination about one man living outside the law into the realm of popular imagination (Kakutani 1981). However, Abbott was not prepared for such a life; within weeks of his release, he murdered Richard Adan, a 22-year-old aspiring actor, was convicted of manslaughter, and returned to prison for 15-to-life (Gado n.d.). Writers who have served time in prison and are able to encapsulate the quintessential outlaw in prose have always captured the imagination of the intellectual community, especially as those who “kill and tell” are rare, and therefore considered valuable to readers who enjoy romantic notions of criminal behavior. In Abbott’s case, his work achieved a literary currency because of its ability to express the violence inside prison and the sheer horror of confinement. When the fear and dreadfulness of the reality of what happens inside prison makes its way to the outside world through literary expressions, art, music, or the personal narratives of those who have served time, the lived experiences of incarceration become a reflection of the modern condition of society. Prison is its own self-contained social system that is a microcosm of the macrocosm (Roth 2006; Sykes 1958). The violence, scrutiny, control, and social and racial divisions are a small-scale reflection of the greater society that supports the use of penal confinement (Sykes 1958). When former and current prisoners deal with their own thoughts about being incarcerated, their feelings reflect the bleakness of prison and imitate the desolation of the communities in which they call home. Articulations of misery and sorrow represent the reality of society’s and prison’s political stratifications, racial conflicts, and economic injustice. Cultural expressions of human suffering, cultural clashes, and the rise of the human spirit are not separate from African American inspired music like jazz, blues, rhythm and blues, and hip hop (Dimitriadis 1996; Stewart 2005). Music, like literary expression, engages with and connects the social, economic, and political conditions of the artists’ lives and others who are similarly situated (Alridge and Stewart 2005). One pronounced lived condition that hip hop conveys is inside the belly of the beast. Through the exploration of hip hop and personal narratives of former prisoners who served time in various “bellies of the beast,” a political commentary about incarceration and its brutality and ruthlessness is exposed.

216

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Hip hop In the early 1970s, in the parks of the South Bronx, “one of the poorest and most crime-ridden jurisdictions in the United States” (Butler 2004: 989), MCs like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, Afrika Bambaataa, and Kool Herc appeared on the urban scene, sharing poetic lyrics and vocal discourse in open and public spaces like parks and plazas (Dimitriadis 1996). The originators of hip hop experimented with turntables as if they were themselves a musical instrument, playing two records side-by-side, making unique sounds and refrains with others’ recordings; the music was overlaid with vocals, and this form of creative sampling fashioned a new form of music called hip hop (Butler 2004; Dimitriadis 1996). DJ Kool Herc inspired others to deconstruct others’ music in order to construct their own compilations linked by experiences, ideas, or how the music “felt” to one’s soul. DJ Kool Herc, Afrika Bambaataa, and others made their music available on mixtapes, and to further promote their musical prowess engaged in MC battles (e.g. artistic/musical lyrical competition) to determine who was “best” at blending beats and free styling (Forman 2010; see also Butler 2004; Chang 2005). Hip hop is a stunning arrangement of the voices and instrumental artistry of the lived experiences of economically disadvantaged and disenfranchised groups and encompasses four specific elements: (1) rapping or MC-ing; (2) deejaying or scratching; (3) b-boying or break dancing; and (4) graffiti art (Butler 2004; Forman 2010). Other core features include sampling, human beatboxing, and instrumental tracks (Chang 2005).3 These distinctive elements and practices emerged and amalgamated dance, dress, art, and idiosyncratic musical beats that interacted to form a unique cultural experience and praxis. Hip hop constructs “new forms of subjectivity” (Foucault 1982: 216) and a complexity and fusion of social forces, including representation, experimentation, dissention, rebellion, and political and social commentary. The 1970s generation of hip hop artists created an interlocking and integrated practice that was a dissenting voice for the black experience that spoke to the cultural consciousness of the inner city and explicitly linked the relationship of the black community with the greater American body politic (Stewart 2005). As a communicative tool, hip hop artists drew from Sampling is the art of merging portions of a previously recorded song and reconstructing that sound into a new song by manipulating records on different turntables. Beatboxing is the art of vocal percussion by creating musical sounds with one’s voice. Jazz and blues singers in the 1930s wailed and moaned unidentifiable noises that were instrumental. Known as “scatting” or jive scat, jazz performers improvised harmonic and vocal percussion (Perkins 1996). Doug E. Fresh, an early pioneer of beatboxing in hip hop, beatboxed in “The Show/La Di Da Di,” which was the first known hip hop human beatbox recording. 3



The belly of the beast

217

their African ancestors by using a call-and-response style common in traditions of storytelling, religious services, and ritual chanting, bringing the audience into the music. Call-and-response, which is an essential element in hip hop’s overall structure (Perkins 1996: 2), is a pervasive form of democratic participation, a public performance and a personal experience that is common in religious ceremonies. Spiritual consciousness within hip hop brings with it heightened awareness about life and death, and the coexistence of both the sacred and the profane (Lauricella and Alexander 2012). The music depicts cultural and religious substructures (Sorett 2009; Zanfagna 2012), such as the Nation of Islam and Five Percenters, in particular, who have had a profound effect on hip hop from inside prison (Sorett 2009; SpearIt 2010). Prison is the institution at the intersection of the criminal process and performance art, creating a unique space in which religion and culture come in close contact to produce a stream of hip hop performances, critical commentary, and spiritual reflections (Dube 2010; SpearIt 2010). West (2004) characterizes this form of hip hop by its political overtones, culture of protest, and social commentary, calling it prophetic hip hop. Prophetic hip hop falls outside of mainstream music played on radio stations, and is listened to by a segmented audience where people experience the music in different locales, event venues, performance settings, and public and private spaces; therefore, the audio and visual imagery illustrates a distinctive relationship between the listener and the artist (Stewart 2005). MCs of prophetic hip hop include Lauryn Hill, Nas, Talib Kweli, Mos Def, Common, and dead prez who are known for their “conscious” lyrics and progressive worldviews (Forman 2010; Lauricella and Alexander 2012). Hip hop mixes words that constitute a new language, uses beats and lyrics in a sharp and abrupt manner that builds on past oral traditions of Africa (Dimitriadis 1996: 182), and draws inspiration from a range of musical samples, layering the fragments of songs into an artistic composition (Schur 2009). Hip hop, in its layering, expresses the aesthetic code that renders invisible the individual parts and forges the collection into a collage where meaning is derived for those who decode and deconstruct the layers of meaning and the hidden messages and riddles (Schur 2009). The layering and talking in code is a genre all of its own, with its loops, scratches, breaks, and beats, that is a historical example of African linguistic features (Dalby 1972; Perkins 1996). Deejays and MCs frequently drop science on their listeners through the medley of ideas, pulsing drums, rhythmical beats, and poetic pageantry (Butler 2004; Kopano 2002).4 The rich complexity of prose is a form of “verbal sorcery,” and is a “Dropping science” refers to when deejays offer their listeners new knowledge, wisdom, information, revolutionary energy, or a new way to look at a deep-rooted issue. 4

218

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

distinct and unambiguously African American cultural phenomenon that old-school rapper Doug E. Fresh called “very African” (Perkins 1996: 2). Hip hop encapsulates the narration of historical whispers (Lauricella and Alexander 2012) while remaining “true to the game.”5 Hip hop differs greatly from dominant white cultural music, and even as its contemporary growth and expansion has spread across racial and cultural groups into a worldwide phenomenon (Butler 2004; Clark 2012; Perkins 1996), it retains its characteristic African and African American roots (Forman 2010). The form of subjectivity displayed through hip hop, dance, and style of dress constructed a novel technique of political resistance, exposing the reality of social division, discussing conflict in contested spaces, and allowing for an open-ended conversation about authentic lived experiences. The culture of the Hip Hop Nation looked at the law as something to challenge, to go around, or to transform through a revolution, and the lived experiences of hip hop offer an intimate view of their perspective of society, and in particular the law. Many artists changed their “slave” or “government” name to something that described the essence of who they were, and many changed their name with the law in mind. Artists named themselves Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott, Mobb Deep, OutKast, and Public Enemy (Butler 2004). The criminal justice system and the policies of incarceration are a function of politics. Politicians, public officials, and government agencies use prison and the threat of prison as a way to shirk tackling social problems connected with the underclasses in urban spaces while simultaneously demonstrating to white, middle-class suburban voters that the “crime problem” and urban underclasses are being dealt with. By locking up and “disappearing” hundreds of thousands of black and brown people to serve prison sentences in state and federal prisons (see Alexander 2010; Garland 1991; Wacquant 2000), incarceration became a lived experience for many from urban spaces. The upsurge in incarceration began in the early 1970s, which coincided with the birth of hip hop: “at roughly the same time hip hop grew into a multi-billion dollar industry of its own,” the growth of prisons was consuming inmates (SpearIt 2010: 176).

Ice Cube’s song, “True to the Game,” is the final single on his album, Death Certificate, which was released in 1992. Ice Cube laments the fact that hip hop was crossing over into mainstream music and losing its edge, originality, and revolutionary style of lyrical prowess. 5



The belly of the beast

219

Hip hop, the urban community, and the prison nation The first hip hop song to become a national hit was performed by the trio of Michael “Wonder Mike” Wright, Henry “Big Bank Hank” Jackson, and Guy “Master Gee” O’Brien, who composed the Sugarhill Gang and performed “Rapper’s Delight” in 1979. “Rapper’s Delight” is a dance song that exhibits the multi-contextual elements of hip hop found within the lived experiences of urban life, including word play, riddles, shout outs, funny rhymes, poetic genius, and religious themes that make hip hop unique. The listeners, drawn from similar backgrounds and circumstances of the deejay and MC, decoded the word puzzles. The album version of “Rapper’s Delight” runs for over 14 minutes, and contains the famous and catchiest lines in musical history, rapped by Wonder Mike: “But first I gotta bang, bang the boogie to the boogie / Say up jump the boogie to the bang bang boogie.” The song goes: I said, a hip hop the hippie the hippie To the hip hip hop, a you don’t stop The rock it to the bang, bang boogie Say up jumped the boogie To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat Now what you hear is not a test I’m rappin’ to the beat And me, the groove and my friends Are gonna try to move your feet. Wonder Mike continues with a shout out to different racial groups: “See I am Wonder Mike and I like to say hello / To the black, to the white, the red and the brown / The purple and yellow.” Wonder Mike implies that hip hop does not have a racial distinction, and that blacks (African Americans), whites (Anglo-Americans), red (Native Americans), brown (Latinos), yellow (Asian Americans), and even “purple” people can enjoy the music. Later in the song, Master Gee references the universality and accessibility of the music: “Once a week we’re on the street / Just a cuttin” the jams and making it free.” When Big Bank Hank raps, “Ya go hotel motel whatcha gonna do today?” it is a shout out to Coke La Rock, who chanted “hotel, motel, you don’t tell, I won’t tell” at parties hosted by DJ Kool Herc in the South Bronx (Chang 2005). Coke La Rock had a distinct rhythm while chanting lyrical beats, a precursor to modern rap. Hip hop has long shouted out performers, which is a form of historical preservation (Rosen 2006) and verbal recognition of forefathers, including Eric B. & Rakim, Melle Mel, Kurtis Blow, DJ Red Alert, and Grandmaster Caz. “Rapper’s Delight” also contains a distinct shout out to its historical roots:

220

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

“Skiddlee beebop a we rock a Scoobie Doo / And guess what, America we love you / ’Cause ya rock and ya roll with so much soul / You could rock till you’re a hundred and one years old.” The notion of “skiddlee beebop” is that hip hop is equal to rock and roll plus soul (Chang 2005). Another element is the religious nature, evident when Big Bank Hank raps, “Now there’s a time to laugh a time to cry / A time to live and a time to die / A time to break and a time to chill / To act civilized or act real ill”; this is likely a reference to Ecclesiastes.6 A feature of hip hop is sampling from other artists’ music widely, often without accreditation to the original source, violating copyright laws as they use others’ music to create their own (Butler 2004), yet Big Bank Hank warns, “Ya never let a MCs steal your rhyme.”7 Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five were well known for incorporating core principles of hip hop into their performances, including multiple turntables, b-boy dancing, deejaying, stage routines, and lyricism. Rahiem, a member of the Furious Five, was the inventor of the phrase “I’m hemp the demp the women’s pimp / Women fight for my delight” (Bradley 2009). Yet, Big Bang Hank, of the Sugarhill Gang, years later, “stole” this phrase and rapped an echoing rhyme, “I’m imp the dimp the ladies’ pimp / The women fight for my delight.” This is the first known implicit reference to incarceration in a hip hop song, “Rapper’s Delight.” The original lyrics came from H. Rap Brown, who was incarcerated with Rahiem’s older brother in Attica. Through this connection via the incarceration of a loved one, Rahiem came into possession of a book H. Rap Brown gave to his older brother with instructions to give to Rahiem. Inside that book was the lyric that inspired him to perform.8 This is one example of how artists echo incarceration through words across both time and space, and how a direct line connects artists through verbal expressions, which unifies the art of signifying or using historic, expressive practices, spiritual consciousness, and tradition (Bradley 2009).9 Rahiem’s use of lyrical word play is evidence of the Eccl. 3.1–3 (King James Version): 1. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; 2. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 3. A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up. 7 Grandmaster Caz, also known as Grandmaster Casanova Fly, as a member of the Cold Crush Brothers, was the ghostwriter of some of the famous verses in “Rapper’s Delight.” Grandmaster Caz received no royalties for his contribution to “Rapper’s Delight” and released a single, “MC Delight,” in 2000, which set the record straight on his contribution to “Rapper’s Delight.” 8 Interview source: http://rapgenius.com/Outside-the-lines-with-rap-genius-otl-49-rahiemexcerpt-3-rappers-delight-lyrics. 9 H. Rap Brown, born Hubert Gerold Brown, a freedom fighter of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement, became Chairman of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) in 1967. While serving a five-year sentence in Attica Prison after a robbery conviction, Brown converted to Islam and changed his name to Jamil Abdullah Al-Amim. 6



The belly of the beast

221

influence of incarceration on hip hop, and how the past is connected to the future via prison. Experiencing the criminal justice system is now a common experience for many people living in urban neighborhoods, and the prison population is disproportionally drawn from low-income and poverty-stricken communities (Western and Pettit 2010). Wacquant (2001) argues that the inner city was formed to exploit black labor while keeping the same population confined to a designated space. This form of racial segregation reflected the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth century: blacks were segregated from and completely removed from white economic, political, and social structures. Wacquant (2001: 103) argues that the inner city was designed as a “sociospatial formation” geared to exploit black labor in a predetermined space while simultaneously excluding blacks from mixing with the dominant white populace. The emergence of the inner city in post-industrial cities in Northern states was a technique of social control; Wacquant argues that the inner city served two basic functions: “to harness the labor of African Americans while cloistering their tainted bodies” (2001: 103). As many blacks fled the South hoping for a new and better existence in the North, they headed by the thousands for the urban centers of the Midwest and the Northeast where demand for an unskilled and low-skilled labor force was high, as emerging companies needed to fill jobs in the steel mills, packing plants, factories, and on the railroads. The massive out migration of blacks transformed the racial make-up of Northern urban centers previously dominated by whites. The racial makeover of Northern urban centers was quickly followed by the whitening of the surrounding suburbs, as whites fled the urban centers, which was closely followed by the closing of many manufacturing plants as they relocated to areas beyond the access of public transportation. The social and economic changes led to major alterations in the financial status of inner cities, which deteriorated as economic possibilities dried up. Wilson (1987: 58) argues that the social transformation of inner-city neighborhoods “resulted in a disproportionate concentration of the most disadvantaged segments of the urban black population, creating a social milieu” plagued by an increasingly socially isolated population disconnected from the labor market and economic system. The concentration effects described by Wilson (1987) comprise high crime rates and long-term joblessness, as well as profound social and economic transformations as a result of the reordering of occupational industries from blue-collar manufacturing jobs to high-wage technological professions and customer service or information processing vocations. The economic changes did not occur overnight; rather, a combination of factors contributed to the deterioration of the inner city. First, due to a decrease in the tax base as whites escaped from the urban centers to the suburbs, poorly maintained city infrastructures crumbled. Second, as the

222

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

city declined, new criminal justice laws and practices were put in place to police the black population in different ways from those the police used to approach the white, largely suburban, population. Third, the maturation of the prison industrial complex, which needed bodies to fill prison cells in order to stay in business, came into existence. The prison population went through a wholesale transformation from majority white in the early 1970s to majority minority in less than 25 years (Langan 1991). “Prison demographics across the country have become darker and darker, to the point that the majority in prison today are either African American or are designated ‘Latino’” (SpearIt 2010: 176). Wacquant (2001: 105) argues that the inner city was purposely transformed into a feeder of bodies for the prison, and by the mid-1980s was operating as a space to store “a surplus population devoid of market utility.” Economic restructuring of the urban economy resulted in massive unemployment, creating criminals of black youth, who heard their pain in the lyrics of hip hop artists (Kelley 1996). The growth in prison detention included hip hop artists, who would return home and perform their prison experiences. Their psychological trauma became prophetic music and political commentary about the conditions of prison and the conditions of the inner city. Paul Butler (2004, 2009) developed a hip hop theory of punishment and justice, using hip hop lyrics to demonstrate how the music embodies a cultural heritage of the prison experience. Many hip hop artists take prison and punishment personally because they have been locked up or know someone who has been locked up. Punishment and prison are the extension of the state’s police power, and the criminal justice system and the prison changed just when hip hop was emerging from the parks of New York City (Perkins 1996). Robin Kelley (1996: 185) argues that prisons are no longer places designed to discipline; instead, prisons are now dumping grounds to corral bodies labeled a menace to society and that policing is no longer designed to stop or reduce crime, but instead to manage bodies in innercity communities. The hip hop theory of punishment imagines the prison as part of a coherent system of public safety, lawbreakers, respect, and the administration of justice (Butler 2004). In the song “Grand Finale,” Ja Rule, Method Man, DMX, and Nas reveal their respective prison experiences. DMX begins with: “I ain’t goin back to jail / Next time, the County or the State see me / It’s gonna be in a bag.” Later in the song, Nas picks up the rhyme, calling out public officials and the police: The Mayor wanna call the SWAT team to come and kill us But, dawgs are friends, if one see the morgue, one’ll live To get revenge, and we ride to the end



The belly of the beast

223

Bravehearts blow the lye with Henn,10 and still rise Took alive with live men, my man got three six-to-eighteen’s And only five in, the Belly of the beast Didn’t wanna hear the shit I tried to tell him on the streets It’s irrelevant, the beast love to eat black meat11 And got us niggas from the hood, hangin’ off his teeth.12 By the late 1990s, the War on Drugs was in full effect, and many artists, their family, or friends had been imprisoned. When Nas raps about “three six-to-eighteen’s,” he is referring to his friend being sentenced to serve three counts of 6–18 years in prison; this is a tremendously long prison sentence, of which his man has “five in,” referring to the fact he has only served five years. Nas finishes with a political commentary on the criminal justice system and how it “love to eat black meat.” In the last four lines the “beast” refers to the criminal justice system, which includes the police, criminal courts, jails, and prisons, that arrests, convicts, and incarcerates black men. Black men are the “meat” that is fed to the “beast,” which needs bodies to fill its beds. Hip hop presents a form of communication that is edifying to those on the streets, or serving time in prison, and their family members, in a way that expresses their sense of an unjust criminal justice system, prejudiced police tactics, and their view of law enforcement. Law enforcement has unfettered access to public spaces and the power of laws to coordinate and corral black bodies into fewer public spaces. As they are negotiating their masculine identity from a boy to becoming a man, young men are heavily influenced by their spatial location in urban places, and the omnipresence of the police. Many in inner cities are challenged by the police on a regular basis to prove they are innocent while “walking while black.” This negotiation is even more treacherous for those who have been incarcerated and return home. Some of those that are incarcerated never return home and will be locked up for life. A group of men sentenced to 25 years to life in Rahway State Prison formed the Lifers Group, a hip hop ensemble made up entirely of inmates, each incarcerated for committing a violent crime. They wrote, composed, performed, and released several songs in 1991, which were produced by

“Lye with Henn” means to smoke marijuana and sip Hennessy, one of the world’s finest cognacs. 11 “The beast love to eat black meat” refers to the criminal justice system and those within it. 12 “Grand Finale” is on the film soundtrack Belly, which was released in 1998 by Def Jam Recordings. 10

224

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Hollywood (Basic) Records.13 The album’s title track, “Belly of the Beast,”14 along with other songs, like “The Real Deal,” uses hip hop to tell the story of the harsh reality of prison. The lyrics are a detailed construction of images and spaces inhabited only by prisoners and the guards who cage them. The language of space offers a stark example of spatial reduction, and how prisoners are constrained not only by concrete walls and cell bars but also by the hard and cruel boundaries of maximum security (Forman 2002; see Sykes 1958). Through a series of events, the group convinced Hollywood (Basic) Records to record a video inside Rahway, and The Belly of the Beast video was nominated for a Grammy in the long-form video category (Lynch 1992).15 The video depicts the cramped and dispiriting universe of prison, as the screen fills with tiled walls, bleak fences, metal bars, and men. The hard angles and gritty confinement of prison are overlaid with the lyrics that take on significant issues such as the brutal and horrific nature of prison rape and AIDS, prison murder, the brutality of the guards and other prisoners, the hardships of deprivation and mental torture, suicide, and laundry detail (Lynch 1992). The music of the Lifers Group falls into the realm of prophetic hip hop for its awareness-raising lyrics and social commentary. The music was to demystify prison and stop the romanticism of serving time in prison. The song, “The Real Deal,” describes the hell of the day-to-day existence in Rahway State Prison, and the group’s individual lived experiences while confined in the “belly of the beast.” “The Real Deal” starts with the introduction of the leader of the Lifers Group. This is Maxwell Melvins, aka 66064 VP of the Lifers Group, help keeping our membership low Now we’re gonna give you the real deal I wake up every morning in the face of a cop Because I used to take the nine and go [3 shots] So now I’m in prison and yo, it’s like apartheid Modernized slavery, straight to the genocide Cause see, some punk locked up to get beat down Raped down, till his booty is broke down Without a sound, the way he was found Hollywood (Basic) Records was Hollywood Records’ short-lived hip hop subsidiary, and featured Organized Konfusion, Raw Fusion, the Lifers Group, Peanut Butter Wolf, and Zimbabwe Legit, who all released music under the Hollywood (Basic) Records label in the 1990s. 14 Other artists have performed songs entitled “Belly of the Beast,” including Lil Wayne, Immortal Technique, Madeline, and Anthrax. 15 The royalties from the album go to the Juvenile Awareness Program, formerly called Scared Straight, which attempts to get the Lifers’ message to young men on the outside to encourage them to change their ways so they do not end up behind bars. 13



The belly of the beast

225

Was in a night gown and his booty was bloody bound Mortified, of AIDS he died I seen a brother do a suicide because his mother died Lost all his pride, and couldn’t run and hide To be horrified, can you even visualize Locked and stocked, no boots to knock With every female cop cold sweatin my jock But as soon as you push up, they put you in lock-up It’s like a set-up, and jimmy is fed up This is the real deal

Newark, New Jersey, and the belly of the beast Hip hop is one way in which men communicate their incarceration experience and the hellish environment inside. Another way in which the lived experience of prison is understood is through personal narratives. During an ethnographic study in Newark, New Jersey that I conducted in 2012, I spent several months volunteering at a non-profit organization helping men and women re-enter society after serving time in state or federal prison. Their personal narratives capture the essence of what hip hop communicates in terms of the painful experiences of incarceration. The personal stories allow for an expression of lived experiences that do not romanticize prison like Abbott’s work, but depict the cruel reality of incarceration. The conversations about prison had several common themes, including agreement that inside prison is hard, that one speaks differently, using words carefully, and saying as little as possible to avoid violent retribution. The smallest provocation such as a break or change in tone, staring a moment too long, or not showing respect can lead to a prison beat down and a violent reaction; the threat of violence is constant in Rahway State Prison. Within the returning prison population that I interacted with in Newark, the men who had served time and survived the belly of the beast were shown much respect and deferential treatment. There is a common understanding that Rahway is different from other prisons. The participants who had been incarcerated in Rahway State Prison tell stories that echo the Lifers Group. During a group session on March 28, 2012, the participants talked about the harsh reality of prison, how degrading it is, and how hard it is to return to society: Carl: Inside South Woods [a prison in New Jersey], the guards call us apes, do ape calls, we get treated like animals, and it’s ok by them because we locked up like we zoo animals.

226

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Kerry: Names and words mean something. That adds up, over time. Carl: Inside is all messed up. Just a warehouse. We all separated, but we [as he points to several other men in the room] were inside together, but we never saw each other, just know through word of mouth who’s there and who coming in. Xavier: Inside, everything changes. Bumping into each other can get you kilt, but outside, it’s different, and you gotta learn the difference, how to act right. Keep your space, but not let any little bump escalate. You on guard inside, and now I ain’t suppose to be on guard. Ted: People are going to bump you all the time out here, and you have to just let it be. Kerry: Yeah, but that is hard, letting go because you have to start. Starting is all fear. Inside was bad, but outside, it’s a different fear. Xavier: Especially if you only know the street. I got 21, 22 years on the street, and 25 in, so what I know? I know how to do time, hustle, banging and doing time, that’s it and that’s real, because I ain’t got another bid in me. Gary: A lot of us can’t do another bid, but it’s all we know. I come from a generation of men that went away. That’s what we do. Now, I need to change that, change everything, the words, the dysfunction, take responsibility. I did what I did, I did my time, and that’s on me. Ted: We can make changes. That’s what I’m doing. I might go back, I don’t want to go back, but I might. That’s real. James: Doing time, that’s what we learn how to do, time. A lot of it’s mind games. What you know, what you do to survive, your mind has to learn and try new things. You learned how to do time now you learn how to be outside. What’s going on inside is behind you, so you need to work on moving forward. Keep moving, don’t stop. During a group session on May 23, 2012, the conversation revolved around how society has changed since they had been incarcerated, and how bad Rahway was: Gary: It’s all guns, everyone packing. Violence is like normal now. Ted: Yeah, people are angry, so you always got the potential for violence in



The belly of the beast

227

every situation. People got all kinds of issues, projecting ’em on others, and you inside and it’s all depersonalized. But everyone angry. Keir: Doing time is hard. Rahway is all punishment. It’s the belly of the beast. Gary: Yeah, had a lot of high profile cases in there. I did time with all ’em, and the powers that be cut off all communications with the outside, lock down at like 4:30, just you and your cellie, the pressure starts to build, and it all becomes pressure. Alfred: Incarceration is going up and up, but crime going down, but we inside for long bids. Gary: That’s because it’s all changed, ain’t no respect no more, nobody got any kind of principles. Half of the guys inside are stool pigeons, trying to get reduced time. No respect. You do the crime, you do the time. Be a man. Ain’t no one a man no more. The system cops you out, people take pleas. Ted: People don’t take the weight no more. Early release rules changed, the scale of justice is unbalanced, it’s huge. Jay: Inside, they [Department of Corrections] move people around a lot now, so you got to network. I was in Northern State and Rahway, so you need to know who’s who, because when you in the beast, you need to know you getting out. Because all you got is hope, they take that away… and well… Jay’s voice trails off, and the room becomes eerily quiet. On June 6, the conversation about the intersection between government and prison is stark, and how serving time changes everything: Earl: Government always got a spot for you. Xavier: Yeah, so you gotta do what they say. Inside, people telling you what to do when to do it and all that. You ain’t got no choices in any of stuff. Xavier: Hell, I ain’t got no options. Ted: There are some, but not many. But some. Xavier: I had 60 with 20, and now I’m home. No options for me.16 60 with 20 means that Xavier was sentenced to serve a maximum of 60 years and had to serve a minimum of 20 years before he would be eligible for parole. 16

228

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Akeem: Gotta do what you have to do to survive. Gotta make bank to survive or go elsewhere, do stuff to stay out [of prison]. Al: Yeah, did time with guys, they get parole and get transferred out of state. Me, I came home because that’s all I know. Where else you gonna go if your family is here? Akeem: Right, because you don’t want to go back [to prison], an’ people forget about you when so much time passes by and you can’t keep up with people [inside]. They move, addresses change, people forget about you and move on. And Newark has changed. It ain’t the same like I knew it. Drew: It’s all changed. Paula: That’s because no men in the community. They all gone, inside, doing long bids, but they are needed to teach the boys to be men. Women do their best, but men gotta do it too. Xavier: Yeah, that’s me. I did time with the feds, 20 years, and men getting locked up for selling crack, all the men were in the pen, and not at home. Randall: And it takes time to be a man, gotta be responsible and all that. Gary: For some, they can’t regulate themselves. Gotta stay in your own lane. Know your place. Everybody stay in your lane and it will be ok. Xavier: Yeah, but the gangs are changing all that inside and out here. Everyone is attached to a gang. Get a taste of the good life, have your team of boys, guns and stuff [drugs], all keep that separate. Paula: Yeah, I’m calming down, coming off that high life, and it’s hard, but I have to do it this time, because I can’t go back. Just can’t do another bid. Randall: Everybody just want to make that “big lick.”17 Gary: Yeah, but you need to just walk away. Have to. Xavier: That’s the hard part, right, because if you don’t know nothing else, what you suppose to do?

A “big lick” is the act of acquiring a large sum of money in an unconventional, mostly illegal, manner so you can get out of the game (i.e. the drug business). 17



The belly of the beast

229

The conversation went off into many directions about how one has to change one’s ways, change one’s mindset, and learn how to live a different lifestyle; however, many admitted that they were not sure how to do that, and some said that is the scary part, figuring out how to live a crime free life because they had never done so before. A lot of the men and women visited the non-profit organization were looking for services, such as getting a state ID, a birth certificate, or a Social Security card. Many men and women who return home after being incarcerated for decades have lost all of their paperwork, and need the basic type of identity paperwork to re-establish their lives. The reason why they have to re-establish their identity is because of the length of time passed. On July 25, several participants discussed the passing of time inside while the world passed them by on the outside: Ted: You do what you do to pass the time [inside], just try and stay busy, do stuff, do the classes. George: Ok, sure, but you get cut off from outside, relationships don’t exist, everyone falls off. Why you think about that when you inside? No touching, no talking or interacting with women, so that is all you think about. What you ain’t got. Louis: Yeah, but that is hard. I been out since March. Real hard, everyone wants to hug you, and be close, kids crawling all over you, and it’s just hard, all that [physical] attention, after years of not having it. I got 25 in, so it takes time to get use to it, you know, and I still ain’t use to it. Had to find a quiet place. Plus, all that noise. It’s noisy inside, but it’s different when you are back. The noise inside is just a dull constant noise. People outside, they noisy. Real noisy. There is general laughter as Louis finishes speaking, and my sense was that the laughter was a nervous kind of laughter because Louis’s words rang true. Although some of the men in the group sessions would make explicit comments about sex and women, the reality is that many of them had spent so many years in prison that they were more comfortable having no physical contact with another human being unless it was violent in nature. Spending time in prison is harsh and beyond unpleasant, and the threat of violence is constant, but coming home breeds a new kind of anxiety where one cannot respond with violence.

The belly of the beast Recognizing marginalized voices through hip hop allows men to discuss how prison feels. The culture inside an all-male prison is one of hyper-masculinity

230

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

and, as the Lifers Group’s lyrics showed us, violence is a normal response to almost everything inside because any other kind of emotion equates to weakness, and perceived or tangible demonstrations of weakness may get you killed. Feeling one’s experiences is taboo; however, it is acceptable to convey one’s emotions through hip hop, which offers a respectable arena to give voice to the prison experience and agency to a generation of ostracized people living in poor and disenfranchised communities who have been negatively affected by the criminal justice system. Hip hop brings prison encounters to the street, and the lyrics demonstrate the harsh reality of punishing people and locking them up in cages. As Kelley (1996) notes, prisons are now designed to corral bodies labeled menaces to society. Hip hop is spoken word, and to the uneducated, hip hop is a milieu of vibrations, but for those in the know, it utilizes improvisational methods to create new sounds, reinvent vocabulary to match the music, and it is integrated by the artists’ personal cultural style. Hip hop is a means to express one’s philosophy of life; in doing so, it juxtaposes prison with a cultural outlet that interrogates the psychological trauma of living under the constant glare of guards. Music has long been an effective form of social criticism, street art and praxis, a culture of protest, anger at “the man” and the system, social experiences, and political commentary, throughout history and interconnected through different eras and music genres. Hip hop, in other words, has breadth, depth, and an extensive range of scale and autonomy, for each individual has the leeway to adjust the musical beat and lyrical prose to the audience, the venue, or the moment by offering social-cultural-political-economic commentary. Hip hop brings multiple streams of consciousness into one form of expression, and continues to be consumed as a performance, as an unorchestrated discourse of free-style sounds, and word combinations that do not necessarily create a coherent narrative, but chronicles a rational tale of common experiences. The artists of the 1980s and 1990s continued the aesthetic of the 1970s by creating music focusing on dichotomies of sound that “the deejay juxtaposes over a steady and continuous beat” of music (Dimitriadis 1996: 183). The personal narratives echo the lyrics of hip hop, as both tell of the harsh reality of prison.

References Abbott, Jack Henry. 1981. In the Belly of the Beast: Letters from Prison. New York: Vintage Books. Alexander, Michelle. 2010. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press. Alridge, Derrick P. and James B. Stewart. 2005. “Introduction: hip hop in history:



The belly of the beast

231

past, present, and future.” The Journal of African American History 90(3): 190–5. Bradley, Adam. 2009. Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop. New York: Basic Civitas. Butler, Paul. 2004. “Much respect: toward a hip-hop theory of punishment.” Stanford Law Review 56: 983–1016. —2009. Let’s Get Free: A Hip Hop Theory of Justice. New York: The New Press. Chang, Jeff. 2005. Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Clark, Msia Kibona. 2012. “Hip hop as social commentary in Accra and Dar es Salaam.” African Studies Quarterly 13(3): 23–46. Dalby, David. 1972. “The African Element in Black American English.” In Thomas Kochman, ed., Rappin’ and Stylin’ Out, pp. 170–86. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. Dimitriadis, Greg. 1996. “Hip hop: from live performance to mediated narrative.” Popular Music 15(2): 179–94. Dube, Siphiwe Ignatius. 2010. “‘Hate me now’: an instance of NAS as hip hop’s self-proclaimed prophet and messiah.” Religious Studies & Theology 29(2): 171–90. Forman, Murray. 2002. The ’Hood Comes First: Race, Space, and Place in Rap and Hip-Hop. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. —2010. “Conscious hip-hop, change and the Obama era.” American Studies Journal 54(online): 3. http://www.asjournal.org/archive/54/179.html (accessed April 12, 2014). Foucault, Michel. 1982. “The Subject and Power.” In Hubert L. Dreyfux and Paul Rabinow, eds, Michael Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics, pp. 208–26. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gado, Mark. n.d. “Jack Abbott: From the Belly of the Beast.” Crime Library: Criminal Minds & Methods. Atlanta, GA: TruTV, A Time Warner Company/ Turner Entertainment Networks, Inc. http://www.crimelibrary.com/notorious_ murders/celebrity/jack_abbott/index.html#comments (accessed April 12, 2014). Garland, David. 1991. “Sociological Perspectives on Punishment.” In Michael Tonry, ed., Crime and Criminal Justice: A Review of Research, pp. 115–66. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kakutani, Michiko. September 20, 1981. “The Strange Case of the Writer and the Criminal.” New York Times, Book Review section. http://www.nytimes.com/ books/98/05/10/specials/mailer-abbot.html (accessed March 29, 2014). Kelley, Robin D. G. 1996. “Kickin’ Reality, Kickin’ Ballistics: Gangsta Rap and Postindustrial Los Angeles.” In William Eric Perkins, ed., Droppin’ Science: Critical Essays on Rap Music and Hip Hop Culture, pp. 117–58. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Kopano, Baruti N. 2002. “Rap music as an extension of the black rhetorical tradition: ‘keepin’ it real.’” The Western Journal of Black Studies 26(4): 204–14. Langan, Patrick A. 1991. Race of Prisoners Admitted to State and Federal Institutions, 1926–86. Bureau of Justice Statistics, Office of Justice Programs,

232

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

U.S. Department of Justice, Washington, DC (Report No. NCJ 125618). https://www.ncjrs.gov/pdffiles1/nij/125618.pdf (accessed March 29, 2014). Lauricella, Sharon and Matthew Alexander. 2012. “Voice from Rikers: spirituality in hip hop artist Lil’ Wayne’s prison blog.” Journal of Religion & Popular Culture 24(1): 15–28. Lynch, Colum. 25 February, 1992. “Inmates Take Rap–to the Grammys: Lifers Group Can’t Attend Ceremonies, but the Band is Nominated for Its Stark Long-Form Video.” Los Angeles Times. http://articles.latimes.com/1992-02-25/ entertainment/ca-2648_1_lifers-group (accessed March 2, 2014). Perkins, William Eric. 1996. Droppin’ Science: Critical Essays on Rap Music and Hip Hop Culture. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press. Rosen, Jody. February 12, 2006. “A Rolling Shout-Out to Hip Hop History.” New York Times, Arts/Music section. http://www.nytimes.com/2006/02/12/arts/ music/12rose.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 (accessed March 15, 2014). Roth, Mitchel P. 2006. Prisons and Prison Systems: A Global Encyclopedia. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Schur, Richard L. 2009. Parodies of Ownership: Hip Hop Aesthetics and Intellectual Property Law. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Sorett, Josef. 2009. “‘Believe me, this pimp game is very religious’: toward a religious history of hip hop.” Culture and Religion 10(1): 11–22. SpearIt. 2010. “Raza Islámica: prisons, hip hop & converting converts.” Berkeley La Raza Law Journal 22(1): 175–201. Stewart, James B. 2005. “Message in the music: political commentary in black popular music from rhythm and blues to early hip hop.” The Journal of African American History 90(3): 196–225. Sykes, Gresham. 1958. The Society of Captives: A Study of a Maximum Security Prison. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wacquant, Loїc. 2000. “The new peculiar institution: on the prison as surrogate ghetto.” Theoretical Criminology 4(3): 377–89. —2001. “Deadly symbiosis: when ghetto and prison meet and merge.” Punishment & Society 3(1): 95–134. West, Cornel. 2004. Democracy Matters: Winning the Fight Against Imperialism. New York: Penguin Press. Western, Bruce and Becky Pettit. 2010. “Incarceration and social inequality.” Dædalus 139(3): 8–19. Wilson, William Julius. 1987. The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass and Public Policy. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Zanfagna, Christina. 2012. “Kingdom business: holy hip hop’s evangelical hustle.” Journal of Popular Music Studies 24(2): 196–216.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

All day, all week, occupy all streets! Race, class, and hip hop in the Occupy Movement Christopher Malone, George Martinez, Jr., and Davina Anderson

Introduction In September 2011, just blocks from Pace University in downtown Manhattan, where two of us are on faculty and the third is a student, the Occupy Wall Street (OWS) Movement transformed a rather unremarkable privately owned, quasi-public park into a vibrant site of political contestation. Zuccotti Park became Liberty Square, and in the ensuing weeks similar “occupations” sprang up in hundreds of cities throughout the world. Whether by choice or not, Pace University became part of the Occupy landscape, ourselves included—blurring the distinctions, the responsibilities, and the demands between professor, student, researcher/ scholar, activist, and concerned citizen. We studied Occupy up close; we researched it from a distance; we organized class conversations and conferences around it; we marched and took part in its daily rituals; we recorded music videos about it; we received grant funding over it; we wrote about

234

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

it. Sometimes we tried to do all of these things at once. Most importantly, we learned from it. Protest movements have a way of doing that, of reorienting one’s consciousness. This one so close to the doors where we spent much of our time—well, let us just stipulate that Occupy Wall Street preoccupied us. It shall do so again in this final chapter of the volume. Here we want to revisit a part of the Occupy Movement that has not gotten very much scholarly attention—namely, hip hop’s role in OWS. In doing so, we think there are lessons to be learned about the movement culture of hip hop and its ability to mobilize for political participation. To be sure, both during the Occupation and after the Zuccotti Park encampment was torn down by the New York Police Department (NYPD), a considerable amount was written about what part hip hop moguls like Russell Simmons, Kanye West, and Jay-Z did or did not play in OWS. A case in point was Zadie Smith’s (2012) profile of Jay-Z in the New York Times Magazine, where Jay-Z questioned Simmons about the motives and vision of the Occupy Wall Street Movement: “I’m not going to a park and picnic, I have no idea what to do, I don’t know what the fight is about. What do we want, do you know?” In an apparent response to the controversy over his Occupy apparel,1 Jay-Z went on to assert that not all of the 1 percent are bad—certainly not himself. “This is free enterprise,” he declared. “This is what America is built on.” Those comments prompted a deluge of replies, including some from one of us (Martinez) that we shall return to later. Zach O’Malley Greenberg’s rejoinder (2012) was indicative of how the mainstream press covered the flare-up: Jay-Z’s Occupy Wall Street problem mirrors hip-hop’s broader problem with the movement. Mainstream modern hip-hop is, in many ways, a celebration of wealth… hip hop’s most prominent artists are now members of the 1%, [even though] most of them came from having nothing, from being part of the 99% [emphasis added]. Leave aside for the moment Greenberg’s overemphasis on the commercialization of hip hop: for him its relationship to OWS was viewed through the superficial prism of personalities and consumerism rather than an eye toward how hip hop organizers integrated structurally within the Movement, why hip hop organizers felt compelled to create offshoots like Occupy the Hood, Occupy 477, Occupy East New York, Occupy Sunset Park, and Occupy Bed-Stuy, and to what end those efforts led. See, for instance, Colleen Nika, November 14, 2011. “Jay-Z’s Occupy Wall Street Apparel No Longer on Rocawear Site but not Pulled from Market.” Rolling Stone. http://www. rollingstone.com/music/blogs/thread-count/draft-jay-zs-occupy-wall-street-apparel-no-longeron-rocawear-site-20111114 (accessed February 12, 2014). 1



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

235

In a word, a big part of the story was missed—we think the most important part. Our goal in this chapter is to fill in those missing portions by offering a more complete analysis of hip hop and Occupy. Ultimately, we seek to demonstrate how the movement culture of hip hop was—and can be—a force for social and political change, particularly in poorer communities of color, and we situate our analysis within two broader queries. On one side, we want to position it within a wider narrative that has bedeviled American society since its founding: the interplay and tension between racial and class cleavages. We address this in the section that follows. If a class-based frame formed the basis of the Occupy Movement at the outset, a racial/ethnic fracture was certainly unavoidable and perhaps even necessary. It was primarily the reason communities of color sought more diverse voices in the protest movement. The mantra of the Occupy Movement—“We are the 99%”—was always a discursive category rather than a statistical one (Welty et al. 2013: 36). Yet, the vision for the Movement was nonetheless clear: this was a protest targeted at wealth, power, privilege, and growing inequality in American society. Far from being rooted in identity politics or the culture wars we have come to recognize in U.S. politics over the past several decades, Occupy was the epitome of a progressive, economic populism, targeted at the state, which sought to refocus post-Great Recession America on class. The “we” in this equation was anyone either empirically part of the 99 percent or willing to stand beside them in solidarity. The “other” in this narrative, the 1 percent, could have been bankers, the police enforcers of the status quo, politicians, hip hop stars (perhaps like Jay-Z)—in short, anyone in the 1 percent or who did their bidding by keeping the structural forces driving wealth inequality. However, as we will see, very early on certain tensions (racial, ethnic, gender, sexual orientation, etc.) frayed the class-based frame of the Occupy Movement. Hip hop organizers who became involved with Occupy stepped into that breach, at once attempting to identify the sources of the rupture and get beyond it in a good-faith effort to ensure that “We are the 99%” included marginalized communities of color. On the other side, we return to the concept of the “organic globalizer” we laid out in Chapter 1 and place hip hop’s involvement in Occupy within the context of the three stages of hip hop’s development. That is addressed in the following section. In short, all three elements of hip hop’s movement culture—cultural awareness and emergence; social creation and institutionalization; political activism and participation—were on display simultaneously both during and after Occupy’s encampment. Having a front row seat to the events that unfolded in 2011 and after has led us to conclude that elements of Occupy organized by the hip hop community would not have been as successful (to the extent that they were successful) had it not been for the political development of hip hop up until that moment. Put another way: hip hop would not have been as useful a vehicle

236

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

for organizing and mobilizing marginalized communities and articulating the political demands it did if the Occupy Movement had happened 30 years ago, 20 years ago, or indeed maybe even 10 years ago. The convergence of the organic globalizer—a maturation process more than three decades in the making—and the Occupy moment brought possibilities that we think many commentators have missed, and which many early pioneers of hip hop never would have thought possible.

Race and class, OTH and OWS OWS does not have a simple beginning, and many have argued that its roots could be found in earlier protest movements in Wisconsin, the UK, and even Tahrir Square in Egypt.2 However, in the summer of 2011, activists in Lower Manhattan began laying the groundwork for direct action on issues of economic injustice. A group of activists called New Yorkers Against Budget Cuts slept in the streets to protest austerity budget measures. They called their encampment, near the front doors of Pace University, “Bloombergville.” The New York City General Assembly (NYCGA) that formed the core decision-making body of OWS arose out of that effort. NYCGA planned the September 17 demonstrations and put in place the methods of consensus-based decision making that OWS would become known for. On September 17, Constitution Day, Occupiers gathered in the Financial District but found access to Wall Street sealed off by police and private security. The activists then moved a few blocks over to Zuccotti Park, a privately owned public plaza hidden beneath the shadows of Lower Manhattan’s skyscrapers. The crowd in Zuccotti Park grew throughout the day and reached around 1,000 people by the evening. The NYCGA met and officially renamed the park “Liberty Square.” The Occupation had begun. Within a week, clashes with police would begin. On September 24, police quashed an OWS march up to Union Square from Lower Manhattan and arrested about 80 people. NYPD Deputy Inspector Anthony Bologna was caught on camera pepper-spraying a group of young women in the face. The video quickly went viral online and caught the attention of many who were shocked by the NYPD. From the outset, OWS opted against issuing specific demands but put forward its “Principles of Solidarity” on September 23. The document Since late 2011 many accounts of the OWS Movement have been released. Malone and his colleagues in the Political Science Department at Pace University published Occupying Political Science: The Occupy Wall Street Movement from New York to the World (Welty et al. 2013), which provides a thorough analysis of many aspects of OWS. For a more detailed overview of its history, see especially the Introduction. 2



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

237

outlined OWS’s commitment to protesting “political disenfranchisement and social and economic injustice.” The Principles indicated that OWS would operate through direct and transparent participatory democracy, personal and collective responsibility, recognizing privilege and its influence, empowerment of one another against all forms of oppression (NYCGA “Principles” 2011). On September 29, a formal “Declaration of the Occupation of New York City” was issued that detailed in broad terms some of the Movement’s grievances. The document declared that, “banks, corporations and governments have become a plutocracy.” Seven hundred demonstrators were arrested on October 1 as police cordoned off a march across the Brooklyn Bridge. Four days later, OWS held its Day of Action for Students and Unions, drawing over 10,000 people to a march from Foley Square to Liberty Square. The Movement began attracting attention from local progressive New York politicians and others considered part of the institutional left such as the AFL-CIO and the Transport Workers Union (TWU). Occupations began to grow in other cities around the United States and the world. The number of occupations ballooned on the October 15 Global Day of Action, with estimates of over 950 occupation sites in 82 countries (National Public Radio 2011). But despite the growth of the Movement, or perhaps because of it, it became evident back in Lower Manhattan that the class-based rhetoric and initial structure of OWS did not adequately voice the concerns of marginalized communities of color. A debate soon broke out about the very use of the term “occupation,” mainly put forward by people of color in the Movement who argued that the land Wall Street sat on had been “occupied” or “colonized” by Europeans hundreds of years ago. “I hope you would make mention of the fact that the very land upon which you are protesting does not belong to you—that you are guests upon that stolen indigenous land,” read a September 24, 2011 open letter to Occupy Wall Street activists (Montano 2011). As Welty et al. (2013: 42) explain, a draft of one of the first public OWS statements caused considerable consternation. It read in part, “As one people, formerly divided by the color of our skin, gender, sexual orientation, religion or lack of thereof, political party and cultural background...” Activists of color blocked its approval. By simply asserting that the 99 percent were “formerly” divided, many argued that a much-needed conversation about structural inequalities along the lines of race, gender, sexual orientation, etc. was being glossed over. In explaining her objections, Manissa Mccleave Maharawal stated, Let me tell you what it feels like as a woman of color to stand in front of a white man and explain privilege to him. It hurts. It makes you tired. Sometimes it makes you want to cry. Sometimes it is exhilarating. Every single time it is hard. (Welty et al. 2013: 42)

238

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

The inference was rather clear: racial and other cleavages were emerging in a movement that sought to keep the focus on class. At about the same time, two friends—one from Queens, the other from Detroit—launched Occupy the Hood (OTH). Malik Rhasaan and Ife Johari Uhuru announced their intentions on the OTH Facebook Page: We are The Least Represented We are Among The Ignored We are Among The Unemployed We are Considered The Under Educated We are Considered The Minority We are The Consumers But most importantly WE ARE THE HOOD!! The neighborHOODs is where the hearts of the people are. Our homes, our parks, our selves. It is in our best interest to have all abled voices heard to bring forth a peaceful solution in this world we have been given. There are millions of people that are effected [sic] by the Wall Street crisis. The questionable, unethical activities downtown Manhattan... and in Corporate America directly effects [sic] our economic struggles and the future of all business and personal endeavors. (Gray 2011) In an October 7, 2011 Village Voice article, Uhuru stated, “I see Occupy Wall Street putting forth demands and a lot of times those demands don’t speak to the 99% that we all claim to be…Some people can’t speak for certain people” (Gray 2011). In an in-depth interview with us in the summer of 2013, Rhasaan elaborated on that point: I’m the founder and national coordinator of OTH and the reason I got started was because when I went to the OWS Movement I wanted to know why all of these white people were doing in the park, so that’s literally why I did it. Getting there I thought that the narrative was a good one but the people that should be the voice of that narrative wasn’t represented and just from the start I said that you guys should be occupying the hood. Which led me to get on Twitter, and it was my way of bringing more attention to what was going on because I felt that it was so important and the communities that needed it the most whether it be black or Latino, even the poor white folk weren’t represented. So that’s all it was and I never thought that it would catch like it did, and it was really that simple that I was just being nosey trying to see what was going on. After that it turned into a watchdog situation for us, because just like anything white privilege was taking a hold. It was the same beat to a different drum, it wasn’t calculated at all. (Anderson 2013c)3 In the summer of 2013 as part of a faculty-student research grant received, Davina Anderson interviewed many of those affiliated with OWS, OTH, and the hip hop community. Much of 3



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

239

With that vision, Rhasaan and others went about changing the structure of OWS. They created the People of Color Working Group, which brought conversations about race and white privilege to the fore. One of their first public statements read: Black and brown folks have long known that whenever economic troubles “necessitate” austerity measures and the people are asked to tighten their belts, we are the first to lose our jobs, our children’s schools are the first to lose funding, and our bodies are the first to be brutalized and caged. Only we can speak this truth to power. We must not miss the chance to put the needs of people of color—upon whose backs this country was built—at the forefront of this struggle. (People of Color Working Group 2011) Rhasaan explained to us later: I think that those conversations [about race] wouldn’t have been had anywhere through the Occupy Movement if I did not open my mouth… if you’re a young black teen, a Latino teen, or even a white teen from a rural area and people are talking about poverty and lack of housing and you don’t see that people are really affected by these things the whole movement is bankrupt. (Anderson 2013c) Around the same time, nearly a thousand miles away in Milwaukee Khalil Coleman was organizing an OTH chapter and faced similar issues of race and class. Understanding that many white members of Occupy Milwaukee had the best of intentions, Coleman also knew that the voices of communities of color would emphasize issues overlooked by his white counterparts. “We started mobilizing people around direct issues that particularly related to everyday livelihood such as Community Development Block funding meant to help black youth programs” (Anderson 2013b). Further: We also tied in the prison industrial complex and how segregation was tied to it...We also did a brown and black unity march, where we talked about issues of segregation and issues of why we are being disenfranchised and we made people realize that we shared the same inequalities and injustices. So that led us to talk about race and to talk about white supremacy and white privilege and what does that mean for people coming from Occupy Wall Street and Occupy the Hood going into black communities, what does that look like. How do you come into these that primary research forms the basis of this chapter. We thank the Dyson College of Arts and Sciences at Pace University for the grant.

240

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

communities and talk to the people who live [there] without people feeling like you’re coming in and taking over? We talked about elected officials, about the prison industrial complex, and then we talked about race, which were some of the issues that we were able to balance off of to galvanize and pull more people into the Movement. (Anderson 2013b) For Coleman in Milwaukee, the connections between race and class in general and between OTH and OWS in particular were delicate. Clearly those in both groups were working toward similar ends, but the trick rested on clarifying deep structural and conceptual differences based on racial identity that could not be smoothed over. Moving forward in a way that empowered all proved thorny. “The Occupy Movement was supposed to be for the 99 percent, [but] to whites it felt that we [blacks] were already included in that. I think for many white people there’s this notion [that] it doesn’t have to always be about race, ‘why does it have to be about race?’ but for black people it’s like ‘well, why is it not about race?’” (Anderson 2013b). He continued: Some of our members were white and some of them were black, but throughout our meetings we discussed things such as white privilege and how we need to be conscious when we come into other people’s space. That brought along a separation because: (1) there wasn’t enough black people in Occupy Milwaukee/OWS to bring issues like these up; and (2) for a lot of whites, I think they thought that issues such as white privilege and race didn’t need to be addressed within the Occupy Movement. A lot of white people looked at OWS as an economic fight but not as a social movement, which explains a lot of the reasons why race issues were [downplayed]. (Anderson 2013b) Ultimately, three groups formed—Occupy Milwaukee, Occupy the Hood, and Occupy River West—and struggled to work together in collaborative fashion. However difficult, Coleman and others in communities of color in Milwaukee were successful in putting the issues of both race and class on the Occupy agenda in Milwaukee. Others with first-hand experience of OWS in New York City sensed that, despite whatever tensions or cleavages, the ability of those affiliated with groups like OTH to put forward their specific concerns actually strengthened the Occupy Movement. One of them, co-author George Martinez, became deeply involved in OWS and OTH and went on to support the founding of Occupy Sunset Park and Occupy Bed-Stuy. After a six-week trip to South America in his role as State Department Cultural Ambassador, Martinez returned to New York City on September 17 to find the Occupy Movement



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

241

in his hometown. He made his way to Liberty Square and initiated his work with Rhasaan and others to build out the OWS/OTH Movement. Around the same time the People of Color Working Group and OTH were formed, Martinez began addressing Occupiers with the support of hip hop pioneer Radio Rahim through OWS’s well-known mic-check system.4 Martinez explained the formation of OTH as follows: There was an unclear direction [to OWS] but there was definitely a feeling of finding “like” faces because there were not a lot of people of color relative to the numbers of white folk. Occupy the Hood started with a hash tag (#Occupythehood) and a T-shirt. There were many folks of color asking if “Occupy” was for their people too? So I used the Occupy the Hood call to help answer that question. In the process, my organization, Global Block, helped with capacity building at the ground floor of OTH. (Anderson 2013a) Taking a step back to analyze the structure of left-leaning protest movements in general, Martinez argued that most economic-based movements wrestle with a successful connection between race and class. “The resistance on the part of communities of color to incorporate whites into any protests stems from the fact that folks of color, for example, are not afforded the many luxuries that whites are used to” (Anderson 2013a). After the financial collapse of 2008–9, “Whites started to feel a level of uncertainty, and that is how the OWS Movement began. Some people of color saw it as finally some whites feel ‘the struggle’—although they have been enduring it all their life” (Anderson 2013a). While the OWS Movement purported to be a movement of the entire 99 percent, Martinez’s initial first-hand experience with OWS produced a different assessment—namely, the inability of many white Occupiers to connect their own struggles to what he called “a cohesive class/race struggle.” For this reason, blacks and other communities of color “didn’t feel a sense of belonging in this fight” (Anderson 2013a). However, Martinez was adamant about one thing: OWS needed OTH, and those in the predominantly white Movement up to that point needed a deeper understanding of how racial struggles were separate, if related, to class struggles. Emphasizing the role hip hop played in organizing OTH (something we take up in the next section), Martinez concluded: Occupy the Hood didn’t take much time to structure and OTH doesn’t need to be an organization to be on call. Without the OTH call that we built, OWS would have folded up sooner in NYC. We were able to Martinez’s first mic-check can be viewed at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qdVs 0ryJpM (accessed March 1, 2014). 4

242

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

get more people involved by using hip hop, which added to the OWS Movement. To white people, minorities were already put into the OTH Movement category anyway. The Occupy Movement wouldn’t have had the same impact in and out of NY. Hip hop and OTH made the Movement famous in their own way. Personally, I used [both] to help translate the issues to historically disenfranchised communities who did not feel they are “in” on them or that they understood the issues. (Anderson 2013a) The perspectives of those with first-hand experiences in OWS and OTH confirm a rather long-standing scholarly debate about the interplay of race and class in U.S. history. While OWS sought to make class the primary prism of the Movement, racial cleavages were as, if not more, fundamental in understanding the dynamic of Occupy. The same can be said about the long trajectory of U.S. history. Recall that James Madison, one of the principal Framers of the U.S. Constitution, famously argued in Federalist #10 that “factions” necessarily form in society based on interests, abilities, and identities. There was no getting around this for Madison, and the best one could do was to control their baneful effects. But Madison also believed a particular factious conflict was most destructive: “[T]he most common and durable source of factions has been the various and unequal distribution of property. Those who hold and those who are without property have ever formed distinct interests in society” (Madison 2007: 464). In other words, the main culprit of tearing societies apart in the past, and which might tear American society apart in the future, was class conflict— “the haves versus the have-nots.” For Madison, protecting the property of those with it from those without it was the first object of government (Madison 2007: 463). Yet, at the same time, Madison and the other Framers also understood the deep scar that race had already carved into the American landscape by the eighteenth century—so much so that a series of compromises over slavery’s existence were concocted in order to salvage the Constitutional Convention in 1787. Madison also wrote about this in the Federalist Papers, which has certainly received less attention. In Federalist #54, he concocted a rather bizarre, fictitious conversation between the reader and one of his “southern brethren” who sought to justify why a slave of African descent should be considered 3/5 of a person for taxation and representation purposes (Madison 2007: 502). The use of a third person to make the argument suggests that Madison himself struggled to buy his own argument. Regardless, what is clear is that slavery’s wound had already been laid bare by 1787; racial “factions” proved just as dangerous to the preservation of the Union as class factions for Madison and the Framers. Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow underscored the racialization of the North American continent masterfully. Referencing this 400-year



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

243

history, Alexander demonstrated that events like Bacon’s Rebellion in the seventeenth century, a multi-racial, class-based uprising, nonetheless helped introduce a system of racial control that has coursed through American politics right up through the mass incarceration system enacted in the 1960s and 1970s (Alexander 2012). Through the three stages of slavery, Jim Crow segregation, and the “new Jim Crow” of mass incarceration, Alexander argued that racial control has been preserved primarily through policies aligning the white masses with the white elite by emphasizing—or, indeed, by manufacturing—racial conflict over class conflict. Many scholars have followed this train of thought by placing the concept of “whiteness” and white supremacy at the center of the origins of race discrimination (Malone 2008; Mills 1999; Omi and Winant 1994). In The Rise and Fall of the White Republic, for example, Alexander Saxton argued that racial difference operated with causal impact in the nineteenth century but was deeply intertwined with economic (class) conflict. Saxton explained that “the hard side of racism generally appeared in nineteenth century America as a corollary to egalitarianism”(Saxton 1990: 186). David Roediger (1991) made similar arguments about the creation or “invention” of whiteness. Roediger (1991) followed W. E. B. Dubois (1999) and argued for the primacy of race conflict in the United States. Eschewing a strict Marxist interpretation, Roediger concluded that, for northern workers in the nineteenth century, the “pleasures of whiteness could function as a wage” (1991: 13). Theodore Allen (2012) and Noel Ignatiev (1995) also focused on the creation of whiteness, but fastened their analyses on the ideological transformation of the Irish in America from a racially oppressed group to one that became vigorous upholders of slavery and white supremacy. The social construction and political uses of racial conflict have important institutional, ideological, and policy implications. While class antagonisms certainly form and persist, the racial dimensions to any conflict must also be considered, as they usually prove to be a powerful means of both social disruption and control. Men and women are thus racialized as much through the enactment of laws, policies, and group positioning as through skin pigmentation. This is not to say that race is not real, or that cultural differences based on race/ethnicity are wholly manufactured. In fact, just the opposite: the formation and sustenance of an in-group/out-group identity is fundamental to societal conflict and a formidable foil to any attempt at mobilizing around class or economic stratification.5 Debates over whether racial conflict is a function of class antagonisms or vice versa, or whether class should trump race or vice versa may certainly See, for instance, Tajfel, H. and J. C. Turner, 1979. “An Integrative Theory of Intergroup Conflict.” In W. G. Austin and S. Worchel, eds, The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations, pp. 33–47. Monterey, CA: Brooks/Cole. 5

244

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

persist. Our point here, however, is a different one. From the moment Occupy took off, “We are the 99%” was not enough to get beyond deep racial and other divisions that penetrated the movement simply because these divisions have coursed through U.S. history, isolating groups and individuals from one another. Far from the view that Occupy’s economic populism was wrong, our assertion is that reducing the message of the Movement to class would undoubtedly become problematic. Racial cleavages were not only real; they were also both unavoidable and necessary. But into that racial/ethnic rift stepped many individuals and groups from the hip hop community that used the movement culture of hip hop as an organizing tool for Occupy, to which we now turn.

The convergence: Protest movements, electoral politics, and the organic globalizer in Occupy In Chapter 1, we acknowledged hip hop’s roots in black urban culture in the United States. The racial and urban dimensions to Occupy in both New York City and other cities help then to explain the ease with which hip hop organizers were able to carve out space for themselves in the movement. Occupy occurred on “home turf,” as it were. But there is another side to that synergy that requires exploring—namely, the extent to which the political development of hip hop had made the moment ripe for its convergence with Occupy. At the outset, we mentioned that Jay-Z’s 2012 interview garnered much media attention. In September of that year, George Martinez authored a formal response that was also noteworthy. “For me, ‘Occupy’ can be easily understood from a Hip Hop perspective,” Martinez began. We want to quote the rest of the letter to Jay-Z at length because it bears directly on the convergence of the movement culture of hip hop and the structural and political dynamic of Occupy: With Hip Hop we bum rushed schoolyards and sidewalks and transformed them into dance arenas for breakers. We didn’t ask James Brown or anyone if we could sample their records. We “borrowed” electricity from lampposts to power our amps. We painted subway cars and inspired a global phenomenon that is literally saving lives around the world through the convergence of 5 elements: Dj, Rap, Aerosol Graffiti, B-boy, and Knowledge. What happened in Zuccotti Park was similar to the spirit of Hip Hop; in that an unauthorized assembly of like-minded and creative people created a space for community building and organizing to directly address local community concerns. More importantly, “Occupy” took on the overarching barrier to addressing these concerns



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

245

due to the corrupting power corporate money has on our democratic processes and institutions. Through this organic coalition, a framework was created to mobilize around the reality that “another world Is possible.” By creating this framework, a model was built that embraced a diverse set of strategies to encourage everyday people to find where they could fit into the movement to work towards the overarching goal of reclaiming our democracy and building opportunity… This is why I occupied, this why we are the 99%, and this is why we need the 100% who want to reclaim our democracy and our communities. I believe that the space of transformational hopefulness that is at the core of “Occupy” is available to everyone, and that we all have a part to play in finding solutions. I have committed my non-profit organization, the Global Block Foundation, to developing and distributing Bum Rush The Vote as our official political literacy initiative. (Martinez 2012) To put it more succinctly: in Occupy Martinez saw a convergence with hip hop, with the “organic globalizer.” Recall that in Chapter 1 we asserted that hip hop has moved through three phases of development: (1) a collective cultural awareness and expression; (2) social creation and institution building; and (3) political activism and participation. While the particular seeds of Occupy had certainly been planted in the months and years before September 2011, the Occupy Movement evolved in very short order in a way similar to that of the movement culture of hip hop over the last three decades. First, Occupy began with a collective awareness of those similarly situated and the need to share that awareness in a local context with an eye to a global critique. Second, it needed to organize socially and create routinized structures that governed and facilitated collective action. And finally, it culminated with certain forms of political participation (albeit widely interpreted and extraordinarily varied in their operation) that made demands (again varied and diverse in their expression and application). Originating in a park with individuals and few resources, the Occupy Movement itself was an organic globalizer. The various occupations across the world generally shared a critique of capitalism and the yawning gap in income and wealth. Occupy Wall Street certainly had fundamental sympathies with Occupy San Francisco or Occupy Berlin, just as Occupy the Hood in New York City connected to OTH in Atlanta or Milwaukee. That is a given. On the other hand, local issues also drove the agenda of the occupation in any given city. This is what we saw in Occupy in the fall of 2011 and what animated Martinez’s response to Jay-Z in 2012. Like many, hip hop organizers recognized a transformational moment. Yet, hip hop organizers had already gathered years of experience through the movement culture of hip hop that allowed them in short order to integrate, organize, mobilize, and even

246

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

co-opt Occupy for their own social and political goals. Hip hop occupied Occupy. None of this is inappropriate or violates some basic understanding of social movements, least of all the co-optation that went on. On the contrary, co-optation happens all the time in the life of a protest movement as it seeks to transform society. How that transformation occurs, and what gets co-opted in the process, rests largely on the connection between more contentious forms of collective action like those embodied in the Occupy Movement and the more conventional forms that work within the electoral arena. Social movements and traditional forms of politics (electoral mobilization, partisan conflict, fundraising, lobbying, voter registration drives, etc.) then have a certain symbiotic relationship. During the Occupy Movement, hip hop organizers found themselves square in the middle of this tension, using their cultural power, their social networks and the institutions they built, and their political activism to push demands long advocated by their communities through Occupy’s structures. We will come back to that co-optation process in a moment—but first we need to consider more generally this connection between protest movements and political participation to get a clearer sense of that convergence.6 According to Goldstone and his collaborators, “there is only a fuzzy and permeable boundary between institutionalized and non-institutionalized politics”(Goldstone 2003: 2). Much of the work of Piven and Cloward (1971, 1977, 1988, 2000) bears this out. In Poor People’s Movements, for example, Piven and Cloward analyzed movements in the middle decades of the twentieth century and found that, at times, the only option available to the poor was a strategy of dissensus politics meant to create turmoil and instability. Facing political marginalization and lacking the resources conventional politics required, the poor had few options short of violence to extract concessions from elites. Policy changes, when they came, were enacted as a means of restoring order and quiescence. For Piven and Cloward, a “politics of turmoil” then was indispensable to electoral outcomes and policy concessions in the short term, and to the advance of a humane society in the long run. Rather than an either/or scenario, dissensus and conventional politics needed to be viewed in combination. While OWS cannot be characterized solely as a “poor people’s movement,” many parallels between Piven and Cloward’s social movement theory and OWS’s strategy of dissensus politics are evident.7 For a more detailed discussion of this, see Malone and Fredericks in Welty et al. (2013). See Piven’s comments at “The Port Huron Statement @50” conference, April 12–13, 2012, New York University: “Electoral politics is very corrupt. But it is there. You can’t wish it go away and the consequences are awful.” “From Port Huron to Occupy Wall Street.” The Volunteer, April 23, 2012. www.albavolunteer.org/2012/04/from-port-huron-to-occupywall-street/ (accessed May 27, 2012). See also Democracy Now! March 19, 2012. www. 6 7



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

247

Other scholars have also sought to understand the connection between contentious and conventional politics. Ganz (2006) argued that, because U.S. electoral arrangements severely constrain outcomes, social reform is usually initiated through social movements by: (1) making moral claims and concomitant demands on the system; and (2) ultimately becoming drawn into electoral politics through a linking up with a major political party. Ganz thus agreed with Piven and Cloward that, while often a precarious relationship, electoral politics needed movements, and movements had a potentially transformative effect on partisan arrangements. Examples abound in the history of the United States. From the abolitionist, anti-slavery, and the farmers’ movements in the nineteenth century, to the prohibition, labor, civil, and women’s rights movements in the twentieth, movement politics have shaped and, in some cases, significantly realigned political parties. McAdam and Tarrow (2010) drew on their considerable work with their distinguished mentor Charles Tilly to further an understanding of this connection. They maintained that movements necessarily impacted electoral arrangements through six “mechanisms”: MM

Movements introduce new forms of collective action that influence election campaigns.

MM

Movements join electoral coalitions or, in extreme cases, turn into parties themselves.

MM

Movements engage in proactive electoral mobilization.

MM

Movements engage in reactive electoral mobilization.

MM

Movements polarize political parties internally.

MM

Shifts in electoral regimes have a long-term impact on mobilization and demobilization. (McAdam and Tarrow 2010: 533)

McAdam and Tarrow argued that the election of Barack Obama in 2008 was the culmination of a movement-based politics on the left, which began in the late 1990s with the WTO protests in Seattle, continued through the Iraq War protests of 2002–3, maintained during the Howard Dean presidential campaign in 2004, and culminated in Obama’s election. They described three particular relational mechanisms at work in this ten-year period: (1) innovative techniques in elections borrowed from movements; (2) a proactive movement mobilization; and (3) movement/party polarization (McAdam and Tarrow 2010: 534). democracynow.org/2012/3/19/strategic_directions_for_occupy_wall_street (accessed March 20, 2012).

248

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

As Malone and Fredericks outlined (Malone and Fredericks in Welty et al. 2013, Chapter 7), a distinct connection between OWS and “conventional” politics quickly emerged, even if OWS officially eschewed those connections. OWS reverberated across the institutional left in New York and elsewhere due to what they called the “structural proximity” of some on the left (labor unions, civil rights organizations, good government groups, the left wing of the Democratic Party, etc.) to OWS. Once the Occupy Movement took hold and spread, groups within structural proximity of OWS on the institutional left sought to capitalize on the energy and put forward their own concrete policy demands that had formed the backbone of progressive politics for years. While the message of OWS was co-opted and transformed by groups making their own specific demands, the energy and attention the Movement generated was a vital means toward that end. Simply put, the institutional left needed OWS to rejuvenate its own movement politics. This co-optation was certainly not officially sanctioned by OWS. On the other hand, that is beside the point: co-optation is in the nature of the relationship between non-conventional and conventional forms of political participation. As the energy of OWS reached its zenith and the message of income inequality reached maximum salience, the migration of that energy and the co-optation of demands also accelerated through the institutional left. Hip hop organizers found themselves at the nexus of that structural proximity—somewhere between the unconventional and conventional forms of political participation in Occupy. Like others, they engaged in a bit of co-optation themselves as hip hop non-profit institutions worked with recently formed groups like OTH and articulated moral demands important to many communities of color. But the convergence with Occupy was unique because of the movement culture of hip hop and its ability to both articulate and organize toward specific goals.

Stage 1: Cultural awareness and expression The cultural power of hip hop was present at Occupy from the outset. The message was certainly in line with OWS, even if it was distinctive to communities of color. But the medium was uniquely hip hop’s. On the very first day the Occupation began, September 17, Chicago-based rapper Fiasco released a poem to #OccupyWallStreet: Hey Moneyman the crowd is outside. The past, the future and the now is outside. The teachers and cooks and the drop-outs too. Word on the street is they looking for you… Hey Moneyman they saying what’s the score? And how much blood



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

249

have you spilled on the butcher shop floor? Those numbers keep running but what they running into? The crowd is outside and they asking of you… Hey Moneyman Moneyman the mayor’s on the phone. He says he wants to know if all those people went home. Those momma’s and poppa’s and students and cooks. Those teachers and preachers, one second I’ll look… Hey Moneyman Moneyman the tents are still up, the songs are still singing and the coffee’s in cups. The nights due to fall and the sun’s going down but its still a whole mess of good folks hanging ’round… They eyes are wide and their voices are loud. Its white and black and colorless proud. The signs are big and the smiles are bright. By heaven I reckon its gone be one hell of a night! Hey Moneyman poor Moneyman you should slip out the back. Cuz’ the forces of greed are under attack. No bombs or bullets or rocks or guns. Just hashtags and voices at the tops of their lungs! And Moneyman Moneyman I wont need a ride. But if you need me… You can find me outside. (Roos 2011) Three days later, Fiasco appeared at Zuccotti Park in New York City and at Occupy Denver on October 7 (Shepherd 2011). The first week of October also saw Kanye West pay a visit to Zuccotti Park, accompanied by Russell Simmons. West wanted to voice his support for the Movement, but only after reportedly shopping in SoHo with Jay-Z and Beyoncé. As he made his way through the park, West was derided by many for being part of the “1%.” In an effort to stave off the criticism, Simmons acted as West’s spokesperson in an impromptu press conference: Kanye has been a big supporter spiritually of this movement. He’s not here for the politics of it. Doesn’t want to make a statement, didn’t want to do any media at all…I guess there is no way around it. He’s here…he wants to give power back to the people. That’s why we’re here.8 “Kanye Occupies Wall Street.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9y768coPoGo (accessed March 10, 2014). 8

250

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

Regardless of one’s particular views on Simmons and West’s visit to Occupy, two things were apparent: on the one hand, their presence indicated the extent to which hip hop’s “royalty” had taken notice of a movement already well underway and how communities of color sought to integrate themselves. On the other, they were behind the curve: by that time activist hip hop rappers had already made their mark on the Movement by becoming deeply involved in the Movement, releasing songs and videos dedicated to Occupy. Besides Lupe Fiasco, the list included sole, Immortal Technique, Bun B, Big Boi, Killer Mike, Pharrell, and Talib Kweli (Shepherd 2011). Immortal Technique appeared many times at Zuccotti Park. In an interview on Amy Goodman’s iconic progressive news show Democracy Now! he performed “A Toast to the Dead”: Here’s a toast to the dead If you don’t drink, Smoke to the head For the freedom fighters killed by the feds For those who died hard in the streets Soaking in red And died slow asleep in a dream Choking in bed Here’s a toast to the dead For my enemies that are gone I’m not a coward
 So celebrating that would be wrong I pray to God that your soul will come back again So I can see you in the next life and finish it then A toast to the dead For criminals burning in Hell I wonder how many presidents
 Are burning, as well Emperors, popes, senators, generals Amputees feeling lucky Until they see they’re vegetables A toast to the dead For those who are forgotten Written out of the history By the corrupted and rotten Black saints whitewashed during La Reconquista Thousands of Indios Spaniards used to conquer the Incas



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

251

[bleep] a moment of silence! I need a moment of violence! Like the 19th century Caribbean islands Long live those who came before That paved the way for me The warriors and scientists that came before slavery And if that last lyric was predictable Take that clairvoyance And apply it to life in the physical Presumptuous, halfhearted homunculus Self-destruction is the power Without knowing what the function is (Goodman 2011) On the evening of October 6, 2011, Talib Kweli found his way down to Zuccotti Park and performed “Distraction” and Black Star’s “Thieves in the Night” (Pelly 2011). After, Kweli addressed the crowd through the famed mic-check: I’m at a loss for words. But even me being at a loss for words, is amplified. They want to know what the end game is? This is the endgame. You doing your job, everybody here with a camera, everybody here with a camera, everybody here with a smartphone, everybody here with a voice. Do your job, and spread the word. For the people who are sleeping here, you inspire us. If you are inspired by them, make it grow. This is the endgame. It’s about growth now. We have to grow. And that’s the point. I love y’all. (Pinto 2011) Upon leaving, Kweli told the Village Voice: “This is the most American thing I’ve seen in my lifetime. I had to come down and see it for myself, so I could tell everyone about it” (Pinto 2011). On October 10, the Global Block Collective in conjunction with Ground Zero and Occupation Freedom released the widely acclaimed “Occupy Wall Street Hip-Hop Anthem.”9 In it Martinez and his wife Clara Guerrero rapped: I take money from the rich and invest it in the poor It’s been a long way coming it’s time settle the score You could do it for your people but I do it for ya all 9

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pl0pHJg_l8 (accessed March 10, 2014).

252

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

And yes I gots mines covered I’ll never let them fall When the real hits the fan son who you gonna call Not…ron paul… More like the honorable Rithm martinez With a team of super heroes Walk throughout the land find my team super zeros And we add it up come back negative with indictments Of a systems that’s stomps..out the postive enlightment.. Occupy the streets Lets occupy the nation But don’t occupy your mind With false occupations Occupy the positions when your team fall short Stand with the accused by occupying the court Occupy all airwaves and spaces in between Occupy the under cover and the overseen But when occupying aint enough and we need a next tactic Combine the global block math and see what happens. We do it for the people We do it for the movement Occupy America That’s what we’re doing Occupation, that’s what they all yell’in But it’s a gangster nation of bankers that be selling Our future While them politicians Sit back thinking about the next move to scrape the next million Off the backs of our children I am wrong for telling The story so crude that’s Its never selling No more lies Occupying time In the minds of my sisters While we strive to survive And realize our lives in pictures Of our future Light that’s dimmer Underneath the shadow they casting Leave us without food for dinner Why we all gotta be strapped against the wall No relief in sight



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

253

That’s why we stressing to ball We bring heat tonight You will hear the call And my suggestions is that you heed the call Occupy government Ain’t no either or We are The ones we been waiting for… I’m free Not defined by what I have, but what I give to my community and humanity, I’m free I know my identity and really don’t care what you think of me I’m free Living my dreams roll with no fear, impossibilities cause I know they ain’t there, I’m free And already occupying the streets, this way nothing ever could be taken from me. On November 17—the two-month anniversary of the Occupation—the Global Block Collective headlined a massive rally of 35,000 people in Foley Square, which was sponsored by OWS and many on the institutional left including SEIU 1199 and United New York. In a very short period of time in New York City and in other occupations across the globe, hip hop had become an integral part of the soundtrack of Occupy.

Stage 2: Hip hop institutions carrying out Occupy’s mission—for their own ends Recall in Chapter 1 we explained that, by the late 1980s, a subgenre of hip hop had grown increasingly politicized, progressively focused on issues of social justice. At the same time, many hip hop heads began creating non-profit, community-based organizations aimed at expanding the arts in poor communities, strengthening education, ending gang violence and youth incarceration, and fighting for social and economic justice. The marriage of many of these organizations with Occupy, then, was neither a surprise nor difficult. The capacity to organize was already present, and

254

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

now the moment appeared to advance the work they had been engaged in for the past several decades. A case in point: the creation and development of Occupy the Hood. We described the impetus for OTH’s creation above; the real question, however, became how OTH would move to organize communities of color around its particular issues and set of demands in New York City and beyond. OTH leaders like Rhasaan and Uhuru called upon the hip hop community to facilitate that outreach. The hip hop organization Global Block Foundation quickly became an integral connection between the unconventional and conventional elements of the Movement, on the one hand, and OWS, OTH, and organizing efforts in communities of color on the other. Global Block relied on its own experience in non-profit organizational management to assist OTH with literacy trainings, canvassing, and direct action training for members of communities of color—providing an important bridge between them, OWS, and groups on the institutional left such as labor unions. It organized social media trainings for OTH Detroit and Occupy Sunset Park. Global Block also helped set up and run the Occupy Elections table at Zuccotti Park. Organizing and coordinating cultural and musical events in the service of OTH were of course a given. After the Zuccotti Park encampment had been torn down by the NYPD, Global Block continued to organize by assisting efforts to expand Occupy’s reach into communities like East New York, a predominantly working-class black and Latino section of Brooklyn. Occupy East New York sought to reclaim properties that had been foreclosed on in the neighborhood. On December 6, 2011, more than 400 people came out to assist one family that had lost its home (Anderson 2011). The effort was part of a larger, 20-city effort to recover lost properties for minority homeowners. Almost a year later as Hurricane Sandy devastated the New Jersey coast and parts of New York City, Global Block became integrally involved with Occupy Sandy efforts, especially in communities of color in southeast Queens and Brooklyn. The South Bronx-based Rebel Diaz Arts Collective also assisted the progress of OTH by providing training sessions for OTH members and doing fundraisers out of its headquarters near the Bruckner Expressway and 144th Street. Founded by the hip hop group Rebel Diaz, the Collective seeks to provide a space for cultural exchange through performances, educational workshops, and multi media training. In the fall of 2011, Rebel Diaz went on an #OccupyTheAirwaves tour to occupied cities across the country to help raise money and awareness for OTH. In a December 2011 interview with a San Francisco website, Rebel Diaz explained its motivation: The hood has beeeeen [sic] in a recession! So we know and understand this energy of rebellion and feel our views are not being played on the radio, so we felt it was important to #OccupyTheAirwaves. The corporations that run the rap music industry are also the 1 percent. If you



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

255

haven’t noticed, they impose values on our community of consumerism, capitalism, misogyny, individualism and violence – all values which in nature are forms of social control. (Minister of Information JR 2011) A third hip hop-based non-profit that used the energy of OWS for OTH and other causes is the Universal Zulu Nation. In October 2011, two development companies were engaged in an attempt to boot residents in the Sugar Hill neighborhood of Harlem in order to build luxury apartments. One of those residents was icon and “mayor” of Harlem, Queen Mother Dr. Delois Blakely, who lived at 477 w. 142nd Street. On October 31, 2011, with the help of OTH and Zulu Nation, Occupy 477 was launched. The effort was aimed at saving the Queen Mother’s low-income building, but Occupy 477 set its sights on raising awareness around the larger gentrification problem across Harlem. In announcing its purpose, Occupy 477 tied the Queen Mother’s struggles to OWS’s mission: Queen Mother Dr. Delois Blakely is in dire need of pro bono attorneys, laws students, investigative reporters, and financial contributions to sustain her efforts to preserve and protect this 30 year legacy of low-income housing. She has done most of this work pro se since 2007 and has exhausted her resources. We come together in solidarity, as people from all races, genders, sexual orientations and cultures to say that will no longer be divided, not prohibited from proper quality of life. We are united. We are the 99%. (Occupy 477 2011) On February 3, 2012, OTH and Occupy 477’s efforts in support of the Queen Mother received national media attention on CNN.10 Because of Occupy 477’s efforts, hundreds of individuals rallied to the Queen Mother’s side through her court battles with her landlords. Other hip hop organizations like the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement (MXGM) worked with OTH, Zulu Nation, Global Block, and the Rebel Diaz Arts Collective to connect the energy of Occupy to other pressing issues in communities of color in New York, Oakland, and elsewhere. On October 12, 2011, MXGM formally expressed solidarity with OWS in a statement: The Malcolm X Grassroots Movement struggles to defend the Human Rights of African people in the United States and around the world. The Occupation of Wall Street is an important opportunity to highlight the http://www.mediaite.com/tv/cnn-takes-a-look-at-occupy-the-hood-adding-color-to-theoccupy-wall-street-movement, February 3, 2012 (accessed March 25, 2014). 10

256

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

economic struggles of the 99% and in particular those of New Afrikans (people of African descent in the diaspora). Corporate and national wealth continues to be built on the stolen land of indigenous peoples and on the backs of New Afrikans, immigrants and poor people of European descent; profits are made because of our suffering…We will continue our struggle for collective self-determination, human rights, and reparations! We do not expect the powers that be to willingly change systems of exploitation that benefit the top 1% and are resolved to build our own alternatives. We stand in solidarity with occupy wall street’s outcry for economic justice because it speaks to the realities of Afrikan people in the U.S. and around the world, and our members are in the streets, in solidarity, from New York to the S.F. Bay Area, Atlanta to Dallas and in D.C. and Philadelphia.11 MXGM had focused much attention on a long-standing issue specific to black and Latino neighborhoods in New York City: the policy of stop, question, and frisk, a tactic employed by the NYPD that targeted mainly young males of color. Opponents of stop and frisk argued that the tactic was ineffective in reducing gun violence and only served to exacerbate police-community relations. In the fall of 2011 and into the winter of 2012, MXGM used the cover of Occupy’s energy to press the case for ending stop and frisk. Efforts in the spring of 2012 culminated in a massive 50,000-person Father’s Day “Silent March” To End Stop and Frisk down Fifth Avenue in New York City. It was an endeavor that brought together conventional and unconventional political actors: elected officials, unions, mainstream advocacy groups like the NAACP and Common Cause, but also OWS, OTH, the Universal Zulu Nation and MXGM (Leland 2012). These efforts continued into 2013, as another march was called in February to observe the one-year anniversary of the shooting of Ramarley Graham in the Bronx and Trayvon Martin in Florida. OWS’s General Assembly announced the march on its website, and many organizers from the hip hop institutions mentioned above both planned the march and took part in it.12 After years of agitating against stop and frisk, its opponents achieved a remarkable victory in August 2013 when a New York federal judge ruled that stop and frisk violated the constitutional rights of minorities in New York City (Goldstein 2013).

http://mxgm.org/new-afrikans-occupy-wall-street-2 (accessed March 18, 2014). “Stop the Cops’ Unity March from the Bronx to Harlem.” http://www.nycga.net/events/ stop-the-cops-unity-march-from-the-bronx-to-harlem, February 23, 2013 (accessed March 15, 2014). 11 12



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

257

Stage 3: Political participation—an Occupy/Hip Hop candidacy The Occupy moment gave hip hop organizations the space to advance a social justice agenda they had been working on for years. As with groups populating the institutional left, hip hop organizations were thus successful in mobilizing and co-opting OWS for their own ends. The opportunity arose not only because of the intrinsic structure of social movements, but also because of the institutional ability for those in proximity to OWS to quickly mobilize for collective action—something that hip hop organizations had become adept at over two decades. Many on the institutional left had also hoped that Occupy’s vitality would in turn rejuvenate the progressive wing of the Democratic Party in the 2012 elections, similar to the Tea Party’s impact on the Republican Party in the midterm elections of 2010. To be sure, there were many self-styled “Occupy” candidates for elective office in 2012 who ran on platforms of income inequality.13 Yet, officially and unsurprisingly, OWS endorsed no candidacies. The Movement’s unwillingness to engage in conventional political participation by co-opting the Democratic Party was evident from the start. Yet, the closest OWS came to conventional politics perhaps was the case of co-author George Martinez, who ran for Congress in 2012 on the Democratic ticket against incumbent Congresswoman Nydia Velázquez for a seat that extends through southwest Brooklyn and into the lower east side of Manhattan. Martinez was the first “Occupy” candidate to get on a major party ballot without the support of a third party (Coscarelli 2012). The campaign attempted to wed hip hop with Occupy and its direct-action approach in an electoral mobilization effort for political office. On the eve of the Democratic primary in June 2012, several national articles appeared on Martinez’s congressional candidacy. They focused mostly on his connection to OWS and the fact that an excursion into electoral politics by someone that deeply involved in the Movement violated its philosophy of direct action. On June 3, 2012, The Hill acknow­ledged that Martinez’s effort to defeat the 20-year incumbent was a long shot (Stanage 2012). One of the campaign’s own staffers was quoted as saying that, even if Martinez received 10 percent of the vote, it would encourage other Occupy activists to run in future elections. The lengthiest article on the campaign appeared in The Village Voice on June 13, 2012 and was titled “Can Occupy Wall Street Trust Its Own Candidate?” (Pinto 2012). The tension between OWS and Martinez’s campaign—and more For in inventory of “Occupy” candidates, see Malone and Fredericks in Welty et al. 2013, Chapter 7. 13

258

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

generally between the conventional and unconventional side of politics— was laid bare. Bill Dobbs, who worked on media and communications for OWS, stated bluntly, “Spending energy on elections is a step backwards.” Another OWS veteran was less diplomatic when talking about Martinez’s electoral attempts: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results. How many times do you go around that circle?” A third individual, Malcolm Harris, who was arrested by the NYPD on the Brooklyn Bridge march, argued that simply writing about Martinez as an Occupy candidate is part of the co-optation process. During the campaign, Martinez was unabashed about his connection to OWS or the work he had done with OTH in communities of color in New York and elsewhere. In fact, many of his fellow “Occupiers” volunteered on the campaign. In this sense, his was an “Occupy” candidacy, even if it was not officially sanctioned by OWS. Just as important, however, was Martinez’s connection to the hip hop community and the fact that his run for Congress grew out of Occupy’s convergence with the political development of hip hop. A June 7, 2012 New York Magazine article on the campaign hit closer to the mark (Coscarelli 2012). Identifying him as “Occupy’s rapping Brooklynite congressional candidate,” the article went on to quote Martinez: “Hip-hop started by people getting together in a park—the connection to Occupy is obvious.” Martinez continued: “The real framework is that we’re building a do-it-yourself democracy model, crowd-funded, the best we can…Why should we just stick to mobilizing when, in fact, we can replace the people we’re marching against with an organized direct electoral strategy?” (Coscarelli 2012). In a play on words from Public Enemy’s debut 1987 album, the campaign created Bum Rush the Vote (BRTV) as part of a larger effort to organize in communities of color and recruit hip hop candidates for future office. BRTV is a rather unusual “political action committee.” Rather than taking corporate and other campaign contributions to dole out to campaigns for political influence, BRTV’s mission is to bring direct action in line with electoral politics through political literacy and civic engagement initiatives designed to promote local activism and electoral participation. The aim is to drive voters otherwise not engaged in the political process, particularly younger voters and people of color—especially in the hip hop community. In this sense, BRTV is attempting to build on and advance earlier efforts of groups like Rap the Vote and the Hip Hop Action Summit Network. As the BRTV website explains: Bum Rush the Vote continues to encourage nationwide adoption of the premise that communities can run their own candidates, that political candidates do not need corporate money, that “you” as a every-day citizen can run for some sort of public office, and that while we rail against the



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

259

political system that serves “the one percent” we must stay innovative and engaged with that system if we are serious about changing it.14 In her mid-June article on the campaign, Salon.com’s Natasha Lennard (2012) explained the convergence of Occupy with BRTV as follows: The Bum Rush platform reads like a list of proposals laid out by some of Occupy’s more moderate, issue-specific working groups: It includes ending corporate personhood, student loan forgiveness, single-payer healthcare and moratoriums on foreclosure. The idea is essentially to gain support by using free online platforms and building dedicated volunteers who will pound pavements for hours for free. With less than $6,000 in funds and a roving street-based table in place of an office, Martinez’s campaign (the first for Bum Rush the Vote) garnered nearly 3,000 signatures and his place on the ballot. Martinez did not win the congressional primary in summer 2012. But the question remains as to whether the campaign and the efforts of BRTV going forward can provide a template for how unconventional and conventional politics might coexist, if not altogether merge. “Scores of citizens were activated and inspired to exercise their voices, and to take concrete action with their boots on the ground, to work towards undoing our corrupt system of politics” (BRTV 2012). In highlighting the need for communities to cultivate and put forth their own candidates for political office, BRTV sought to have people perceive themselves as the body politic, to cease thinking that political office is somehow the domain of some other class of people. More clear, however, is this: Bum Rush the Vote was an outgrowth— and, we think, the logical outgrowth—of hip hop’s political development during Occupy. As the Movement unfolded, the organic globalizer also evolved with it as cultural expression, social creation, and political participation all converged in a mobilizing effort on behalf of some of the most marginalized communities in the United States may have been left out of Occupy otherwise.

Conclusion In the summer of 2013, we asked OTH founder Malik Rhasaan for his perspective on the role hip hop played in the Occupy efforts. He responded:

http://bumrushthevote.weebly.com/about-brtv.html (accessed March 15, 2014).

14

260

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

As far as hip hop, I’m 41 and hip hop just turned 40 years old in August. So anything that I have done falls beneath the banner of hip hop just because that’s the culture that I’ve been surrounded by. Everything that I have done in my life has had a hip hop beat to it, so how we unified people under OTH using hip hop as a big organizing tool. Hip hop made me change my clothes, hip hop has made me change my politics. Perfect example of what’s going on with DJ Mister Cee—hip hop will also change how people look at the LGBT community. So I feel like hip hop has always been an organizing tool. Everything we have done is through hip hop because we are trying to reach the poor black and Latino community and usually the music that they listen to is hip hop. Tupac was an organizer, and Chuck D was definitely an organizer and you can go on and on. We use the music, we use video, and it was really that simple and I think it caught on because it was familiar. What moves the youth today is hip hop. Hip hop is all I know and what I use to unify people. Any movement had music involved and hip hop gets through to our generation. Who listens to people more than they listen to Jay-Z? I think Cornell West is one of the greatest minds on the planet but at the end of the day, Gucci Mane can say something on Twitter and it can make national news. So if we can get these rappers to have a different conversation we can do more to help racism, we can do more to help poverty. (Anderson 2013c) Rhasaan is a self-described, card-carrying member of what Bakari Kitwana (2002) called the “hip-hop generation.” His comments crystallize what we have attempted to convey in this chapter. Hip hop is cultural. Hip hop is social. And, if necessary, hip hop can be political. We take this as a given—the question of course is how. We have responded here by using the analytical concept of the “organic globalizer” and demonstrating how hip hop’s cultural, social, and political import coursed its way through the Occupy Movement, thereby converging with one of the most important left-leaning social movements of the last several decades. From the moment OWS descended upon Lower Manhattan in September 2011, hip hop was present—through the cultural expression of collective concerns, through mobilizing in and for communities of color, and ultimately through more conventional means of political participation. Members of the “hip-hop generation” quickly realized that the mantra of OWS—“We are the 99%”—left many communities out. Occupy the Hood stepped into that void in New York and in cities across the United States. Hip hop organizers helped in that cause and served to expand the message, reach, and activism of the Occupy Movement to places only they could— ensuring that “all day, all week, occupy all streets” was a promise made good on.



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

261

References Alexander, Michelle. 2012. The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press. Allen, Theodore. 2012. Invention of the White Race (2nd edn). New York: Verso Press. Anderson, Davina. August 8, 2013a. Interview with George Martinez. —August 27, 2013b. Interview with Khalil Coleman. —September 12, 2013c Interview with Malik Rhasaan. Anderson, Michelle. December 7, 2011. “Occupy Wall Street Re-Occupies Foreclosed Home in East New York: A Report From the Scene.” http://blogs. villagevoice.com/runninscared/2011/12/occupy_wall_str_37.php (accessed March 14, 2014). Bum Rush the Vote (BRTV). 2012. http://bumrushthevote.weebly.com/about-brtv. html (accessed March 23, 2014). Coscarelli, Joe. June 7, 2012. “Meet George Martinez, Occupy’s Rapping Brooklynite Congressional Candidate.” http://nymag.com/daily/ intelligencer/2012/06/george-martinez-occupy-wall-street-rapping-candidate-forcongress.html (accessed March 18, 2014). Dubois, W. E. B. 1999. Black Reconstruction. New York: Free Press. Ganz, Marshall. 2006. “Left Behind: Social Movements, Parties and the Politics of Reform.” The Hauser Center for Nonprofit Organizations. Working Paper #34. Goldstein, Joseph. August 12, 2013. “Judge Rejects New York’s Stop-and-Frisk Policy.” http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/13/nyregion/stop-and-frisk-practiceviolated-rights-judge-rules.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 (accessed March 15, 2014). Goldstone, Jack A., ed. 2003. States, Parties, and Social Movements. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Goodman, Amy. October 11, 2011. “Hip-Hop Artist Immortal Technique: No More Free Passes for Our Government.” Democracy Now! http://www. democracynow.org/2011/10/11/hip_hop_artist_immortal_technique_no (accessed March 12, 2014). Gray, Rosie. October 7, 2011. “Occupy the Hood Aims to Bring More Minorities into the Occupy Wall Street Fold.” Village Voice blog. http://blogs.villagevoice. com/runninscared/2011/10/occupy_the_hood.php (accessed March 11, 2014). Greenberg, Zach O’Malley. September 10, 2012. “Jay-Z’s Occupy Wall Street Problem is Hip-Hop’s Occupy Wall Street Problem.” Forbes.com. http://www. forbes.com/sites/zackomalleygreenburg/2012/09/10/jay-zs-occupy-wall-streetproblem-is-hip-hops-occupy-wall-street-problem (accessed March 20, 2014). Hammond, Scott J., Kevin R. Hardwick, and Howard L. Lubert, eds. 2007. Classics in American Political and Constitutional Thought. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Press. Ignatiev, Noel. 1995. How the Irish Became White. New York: Routledge Press. Kitwana, Bakari. 2002. The Hip Hop Generation: Young Blacks and the Crisis in African American Culture. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Leland, John. June 17, 2012. “Thousands March Silently to Protest Stop-andFrisk Policies.” http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/18/nyregion/thousands-

262

THE ORGANIC GLOBALIZER

march-silently-to-protest-stop-and-frisk-policies.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1& (accessed March 15, 2014). Lennard, Natasha. June 18, 2012. “An Occupier Eyes Congress.” http://www. salon.com/2012/06/18/an_occupier_eyes_congress (accessed March 15, 2014). Madison, James. 2007. “The Federalist Papers.” In Scott J. Hammond, Kevin R. Hardwick, and Howard L. Lubert, eds, Classics in American Political and Constitutional Thought. Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Press. Malone, Christopher. 2008. Between Freedom and Bondage: Race, Party and Voting Rights in the Antebellum North. New York: Routledge Press. Martinez, George. September 16, 2012. “All Day, All Week, Occupy All Streets: George Martinez’s Response to Jay-Z.” The Sparrow Project. http://www. sparrowmedia.net/2012/09/occupy-wall-street-response-to-jay-z-georgemartinez (accessed March 1, 2014). McAdam, Doug and Sidney Tarrow. “Ballots and barricades: on the reciprocal relationship between elections and social movements.” Perspectives on Politics 8 (2010): 529–42. Mills, Charles. 1999. The Racial Contract. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Minister of Information JR. December 24, 2011. “Occupy the Airwaves: An Interview wit’ the Rap Group Rebel Diaz.” http://sfbayview.com/2011/occupythe-airwaves-an-interview-wit-the-rap-group-rebel-diaz (accessed March 15, 2014). Montano, John Paul. September 24, 2011. “An Open Letter to the Occupy Wall Street Activists,” http://www.zashnain.com/2011/09/open-letter-to-occupy-wallstreet.html (accessed February 23, 2014). National Public Radio. October 15, 2011. “Occupy Wall Street Inspires Worldwide Protests.” www.npr.org/2011/10/15/141382468/occupy-wall-streetinspires-worldwide-protests (accessed June 19, 2012). NYCGA (New York City General Assembly). September 23, 2011. “Principles of Solidarity,” www.nycga.net/resources/principles-of-solidarity/ (accessed May 25, 2012). Occupy477. October 31, 2011. http://occupy477.wordpress.com/2011/10 (accessed March 15, 2014). Omi, Michael and Howard Winant. 1994. Racial Formation in the United States from the 1960s to the 1990s. New York: Routledge Press. Pelly, Jenn. October 7, 2011. “Watch Talib Kweli Perform at Occupy Wall Street Protest Last Night.” http://pitchfork.com/news/44232-watch-talib-kweliperform-at-occupy-wall-street-protest-last-night/ (accessed March 10, 2014). People of Color Working Group. October 4, 2011. “Call Out to People of Color from the #OWS POC Working Group.” https://www.facebook. com/notes/sonny-singh-brooklynwala/call-out-to-people-of-color-from-theoccupywallstreet-poc-working-group/10150429157742784 (accessed March 15, 2014). Pinto, Nick. October 7, 2011.“Talib Kweli Plays Occupy Wall Street.” http:// blogs.villagevoice.com/music/2011/10/talib_kweli_pla.php (accessed March 10, 2014). —June 13, 2012. “Can Occupy Wall Street Trust Its Own Candidate?” http:// www.villagevoice.com/2012-06-13/news/George-Martinez-occupy-wall-streetcandidate (accessed March 10, 2014).



All day, all week, occupy all streets!

263

Piven, Frances Fox and Richard Cloward. 1971. Regulating the Poor: The Functions of Public Welfare. New York: Vintage Books. —1977. Poor People’s Movements: Why They Succeed, How They Fail. New York: Pantheon Books. —1988. Why Americans Don’t Vote. New York: Pantheon Books. —2000. Why Americans Still Don’t Vote—and Why Politicians Want It That Way. New York: Beacon Press. Roediger, David. 1991. Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Working Class. New York: Verso Press. Roos, Jerome. September 17, 2011. “A Poem by Lupe Fiasco for #OCCUPYWALLSTREET.” http://roarmag.org/2011/09/a-poem-by-lupe-fiascofor-occupywallstreet (accessed March 8, 2014). Saxton, Alexander. 1990. The Rise and Fall of the White Republic: Class, Politics and Mass Culture in Nineteenth Century America. London: Verso Press. Shepherd, Julianne Escobedo. 2011. “8 Activist Rappers Representing Occupy Wall Street and Other Progressive Causes.” http://www.alternet.org/ story/152690/8_activist_rappers_representing_occupy_wall_street_and_other_ progressive_causes?page=0%2C0 (accessed March 2, 2014). Smith, Zadie. September 6, 2012. “The House That Hova Built.” New York Times Magazine, http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/09/t-magazine/the-housethat-hova-built.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0 (accessed March 20, 2014). Stanage, Niall. June 3, 2012. “Occupy Wall Street Activist Aims to Occupy New York House Seat.” http://mobile.thehill.com/homenews/ campaign/230585-occupy-wall-street-activist-aims-to-occupy-house-seat-inchallenge-to-dem-lawmaker (accessed June 13, 2012). Welty, Emily, Matthew Bolton, Meghana Nayak, and Christopher Malone. 2013. Occupying Political Science: The Occupy Wall Street Movement from New York to the World. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

INDEX

“A Guata Tag” (Schönheitsfe(h)ler) 155–6 Abbott, Jack 214–15 In the Belly of the Beast: Letters from Prison (1981) 214 Abd al-Wahhab, Mohammad 115 “Filastin” 115 Aboriginal Land Rights Commission 138 Aborigines 134–44 “Abu al Almanii” (“I’m Waiting for Death”) (Cuspert) 150 Adan, Richard 215 ADMC 166 Advanced Chemistry 156 “Asylpolititk” 156 “Fremd im eigenen Land” 156 “Adventures of Grandmaster Flash and the Wheels of Steel, The” (Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five) 83 Africa Bambaataa Aasim 7–8, 82–3 “Planet Rock” 83 African traditions 217–18 Afro-Colombian rap 39 Afro-Cuban rap 176–7, 178–86 Afro-Cubans 173–4, 178 see also Afro-Cuban rap Ahearn, Charlie 8 Wild Style (1982) 8 Alexander, Michelle: New Jim Crow, The (2010) 242–3 Alman, Abu Talha al- see Cuspert, Denis “Alone Again” (Markie) 86 “Alpenrap” (Erste Allgemeine Verunsicherung (EAV)) 155 Amenaza 179

America’s Most Wanted (AMW) 199–200 American Dilemma, An (1944) (Myrdal) 200 AMW (America’s Most Wanted) 199–200 Anderson, Richard D., Jr. 177–8 anti–Semitism 159 see also racism Aoki, Richard Masato 194 apartheid 9 Arab world, the 39 art 53–4, 134 Artists Against Apartheid 9 Asian Americans 175 aspirational capital 46, 53–5 “Asylpolititk” (Advanced Chemistry) 156 Australia, indigenous peoples and 135–44 Australia Council for the Arts 144 Austria 155, 159 see also Vienna authenticity 30–4, 160–8 B-Girls 25 B-Planet 25 BAC (Blackout Arts Collective) 10 Baraka, Ras 13–14 Bastards of the Party (Sloane, 2005) 107 Beatles, the: White Album 94 Beeda Weeda: “I Don’t Ghostride (featuring Shady Nate and Kaz Kyzah)” 206 “Belly of the Beast” (Lifers Group) 224 Belly of the Beast, The (Spheeris, 1992) 224

266 Index

Berlin Wall, the 155 Bhaba, Homi K. 103–4 Big Bank Hank 219–20 Billboard 91 Bitches Brew (Davis) 65 black culture 101–2, 104 see also blackness stereotypes of 106 black masculinity see also CRT and race prisons and 229–30 rap and 60–5, 69–73 stereotypes of 105–8 Black Moon: “I Got Cha Opin” 83 Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America (1994) (Rose) 4 Black Panther Party for Self Defense (BPPSD) 190–1, 192, 194–8, 207 “roots of the party, The” 192, 196–7 “Black Power” (Carmichael) 195–6 black pride 107, 196 Black Sexual Politics (2005) (Hill Collins) 104 black women 24, 105 see also race blackness 154 Blackout Arts Collective (BAC) 10 Blakely, Delois 255 Blaxploitation 102 bling 90 Bloc Identitaire 160 Bloody Beaumont 214 “Blurred Lines” (Robin Thicke feat. T. I. and Pharrell) 27–8 Bomb Squad 85 “Bonfire” (Childish Gambino) 32 Boogie Down Production (BGD) “Bridge, The” 84 Books not Bars 10 “Born Here ‘90” (DAM) 117, 118, 122, 127 “Bounce It” (Juicy J) 26 Boyd, Ted: New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip Hop, The (2003) 4

BPPSD (Black Panther Party for Self Defense) 190–1, 192, 194–8, 207 “roots of the party, The” 192, 196–7 branding 82 break dance 154–5 Breakin’ (Silberg, 1984) 8 “Bridge, The” (Boogie Down Production (BGD)) 84 Bridge, The (Billy Joel) 84 Bridges, Christopher (Ludacris): Ludacris presents…Disturbing Tha Peace 72 BRTV (Bum Rush the Vote) 258–9 Bum Rush the Vote (BRTV) 258–9 Bushido 150–2, 158 “Gangbang” 167 “Stress ohne Grund” (“Stress without Reason”) 150 Butler, Judith 64–7 “Performative Acts” (1990) 65 call and response 217 Campbell, Clive 7 Campbell v. Acuff-Rose (1994) 86 “Can I Kick It?” (A Tribe Called West) 84 capitalism 102, 197 Carmichael, Stokely: “Black Power” 195–6 “Caught, Can We Get a Witness” (Public Enemy) 87 Central Australian Aboriginal Media Association 144 Central Europe 149–54 authenticity and 160–8 history of rap and 154–9 right wing, and the 159–60 Chic 80 “Good Times” 80, 83 Childish Gambino “Bonfire” 33 children 122–3, 126 Chinese-Cubans 172, 173–8, 180–6 “chopping” 88–9 Chuck D 85, 87 CIT (communications identity theory) 65

Index Civil Rights Movement (CRM) 49, 61–2 class 154, 157, 167, 235–44 Cloward, Richard: Poor People’s Movements (1977) 246 Coke La Rock 219 Coleman, Khalil 239–40 Coleman, N. M. 22–3 collaboration 50–1, 53 “collaged” music 83 College Dropout (Kayne West) 70 colonization 195 color-blind ideology 32 Colors (Hopper, Dennis, 1992) 155 commercialization 155, 157, 165–6, 234 right wing, and the 159–60 Common Sense Deficiency Syndrome (CSDS) 9–10 Commonwealth Electoral Act 1962 137 communications identity theory (CIT) 65 community organizations 9–11, 14, 195, 253–6 see also Global Block Foundation; OTH; OWS; PHH complicit masculinity 67–9 Confucianism 182–3 Connell, R. W. 67 consumerism 120–1 see also capitalism Cook, Dave “Davey D” 11–12 “Cool V’s Tribute to Scratching” (Markie) 87 copyright laws 81–2, 85–90 mash-ups and 94 mixtapes and 93–4 Public Enemy and 85 copyright outlaws 79–81, 85, 88, 91 corporate interests 105, 106–7 Craig, Maxine Leeds 71 criminal justice system 214, 218, 221–5 see also prisons critical race theory (CRT) 67 CRM (Civil Rights Movement) 49, 61–3 CRT (critical race theory) 67

267

CSDS (Common Sense Deficiency Syndrome) 9–10 Cuba 172, 173–4 see also Afro-Cubans and Chinese–Cubans Cuban hip hop 39 see also Afro-Cuban rap and Cuban rap Cuban rap 179 see also Cuban hip hop Cuspert, Denis 150–2 “Abu al Almanii” (“I’m Waiting for Death”) 150 cypher, the 45–7 rebuilding 47–52 Czech Republic, the 159 DAM (Das Arabian MCs) “Born Here ‘90” 117, 118, 122, 127 “G’areeb Fi Biladi” (“Stranger in My Own Country”) 117, 120 “If I’d Go Back in Time” 117, 118, 119, 122 “Mali Huriye” (“I Don’t Have Freedom”) 117, 119, 121, 123, 124 “Meen Erhabe?” (“Who’s a Terrorist?”) 116–25 Darwish, Mahmoud 115 Das Arabian MCs (DAM) see DAM Davis, Miles: Bitches Brew 65 Dawkins, M. A. 32 de facto systems 66–7 de jure systems 66–7 deejays 82–3, 85 sampling and 86 democratization 177–8 Desert Rap workshop 140 Deso Dogg see Cuspert, Denis “Die da?!” (Fantastischen Vier!, Die) 157 Digable Planets 87 “Escapism (Getting’ Free)” 87 “Jimmie Diggin Cats” 87 Digital Underground: Sex Packets 83 discourse branding 191 discourse strategies 177–8, 180–6

268 Index

distancing discourse 182 distribution 91–2, 105 DJ Danger Mouse 94: Grey Album 94 DJ Kool Herc (Clive Campbell) 7, 82–3, 216 Donovan, Kevin 7–8 Dr. Dre 82 Dude, You’re a Fag (2007) (Pascoe) 66 East Jersey State Prison 214 see also Rahway State Prison education see HHBE Edwards, Bernard 80 Efil4zaggin (N.W.A.) 91 Ella Baker Center for Human Rights 10 Ellison, Ralph: Invisible Man (1952) 207 Emdin, C. 21 EMI 94 emigration 193–4 see also immigrants Eminem 31–2 Marshall Mathers LP 2, The 34 enactment 65–6 “Endstation Gleichberechtigung” (“Final Station: Equality”) (EsRap) 162–4 erotic, the 71 Erste Allgemeine Verunsicherung (EAV) 155 “Alpenrap” 155 “Escapism (Getting’ Free)” (Digable Planets) 87 EsRap 162–4 “Endstation Gleichberechtigung” (“Final Station: Equality”) 162–4 Essence 24 ethnicity 51–2 see also race Europe see Central Europe Evil Dee 83 Falco “Kommissar, Der” 155 Fanon, Frantz 103 Fantastischen Vier!, Die 157

“Die da?!” 157 FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation) 194, 197–8 Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) 194, 197–8 Federal Communications Commission 92 feminism 21–9, 105 Fiasco 248–9 Fifth Corner movement 36 “Filastin” (Abd al-Wahhab, Mohammad) 115 film 102 415 199 France 157, 159 Franz, Barbara 24 “Freedom of Speech” (Immortal Technique) 91 Frei. Wild 159 “Fremd im eigenen Land” (Advanced Chemistry) 156 gang culture 107–8 “Gangbang” (Bushido) 167 gangsta-rap 22, 89, 107–8, 166–7 Oakland, California and 198–203 “Gangster of Love” (Geto Boys) 84 Ganz, Marshall 247 “G’areeb Fi Biladi” (“Stranger in My Own Country”) (DAM) 117, 120 Garnet, Henry 196 gender 162–5 see also feminism; sexism; women George Clinton and Parliament 89 Germany 150–6 right wing, and the 159–60 Geto Boys: “Gangster of Love” 84 Ghana 39 “ghetto” music 32 Ghetto Priest (James White) 11, 13 “Ghost Ride It” (J-Diggs) 205–6 Ghostride the Whip (DJ Vlad, 2008) 205–6 Gigo Flow and Pyranja “Human Equals Human” (“Mensch gleich Mensch”) 167–8 Global Block Collective 253

Index “Occupy Wall Street Hip–Hop Anthem” 251–3 Global Block Foundation 11, 241, 254 globalization 39 “Good Times” (Chic) 80, 83 Graduation (West, Kanye) 70 graffiti art 134 “Grand Finale” (Ja Rule, Method Man and Nas) 222–3 Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas 202 Grand Upright Music v. Warner Brothers (1991) 86 Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five 82–3, 220 “Adventures of Grandmaster Flash and the Wheels of Steel, The” 83 Green-Collar Jobs Campaign 10 Greenberg, Zach O’Malley 234 Grey Album (DJ Danger Mouse) 94 Grey Tuesday 94 Ground Zero: “Occupy Wall Street Hip-Hop Anthem” 251–3 “grounded theory” 192 Guerrero, Clara: “Occupy Wall Street Hip-Hop Anthem” 251–3 Gupta-Carlson 24–5 Guy Code 68 see also masculinity H.E.A.L. (Human Education Against Lies) 9–10 H. Rap Brown 220 “Hand Drum” (Sibastick (Chris Sutherland)) 134 “Happy” (Williams, Pharrell) 167 Hard Bass 160 Harlem 255 Hawke, Bob 138 Heal the Streets 10 hegemonic masculinity 22, 67–9 Heinz 156 “Mein Ruf ist im Eimer” 156 HHBE (Hip Hop Based Education) 19–20, 39–40 feminism and 22–3, 25–9 internationalization and 39

269

lyrics and 21, 25–6 race and 29–35 religion and morality and 35–9 sampling and 20 science education and 21 sexism and 22–3, 26–9 Hill Collins, Patricia: Black Sexual Politics (2005) 104 hip hop 2, 4, 229–30 see also Palestinian hip hop; rap African American community and 4, 25 see also race cultural awareness and emergence 3, 7–8 see also Project HIP-HOP discourse of 44 East Coast 88 elements of 7, 216 globalization and 4–6 history of 49–50, 51, 216–18 indigenous peoples and 130–4, 139–44 OTH (Occupy the Hood) and 254–5 OWS (Occupy Wall Street) movement and 244–6, 248–53, 255–7, 259–60 political activism and participation 3, 11–15, 24 see also politics political development of 3, 5–15, 235–6 prophetic hip hop 217, 224 rebellion and 104–5 social creation and institutionalization 3, 8–11, 132 see also Project HIP-HOP West Coast 88–9 Hip-Hop Association 11 Hip Hop Based Education (HHBE) see HHBE Hip Hop Caucus 10–11 Hip Hop Congress 10 Hip Hop Declaration of Peace 11 Hip-Hop=Healthy (HYPE) 140 Hip Hop Nation 91, 93 Hip Hop Summit Action Network (HSAN) 12 Hip-Hop Team Vote 13 hip hop theology 35–6

270 Index

Hip Hop Wars, The (2008) (Rose, Tricia) 44 Hiplife in Ghana: West African Indigenization of Hip–Hop (2012) (Osamare) 4–5 Hispanic world, the 39 history 48–52 holy hip hop 35 homeland, the 122 Hoodstarz: “Speedin’ (featuring San Quinn and Big Seff)” 206 HSAN (Hip Hop Summit Action Network) 12 Hu–DeHart, Evelyn 175 Human Education Against Lies (H.E.A.L.) 9–10 “Human Equals Human” (“Mensch gleich Mensch”) (Gigo Flow and Pyranja) 167–8 hustling 198–9 see also hyphy music “Hymn to Justice” (‘Isa) 117, 125 HYPE (Hip-Hop=Healthy) 140 hyphy music 203–6 I Am Not A Human Being (Lil Wayne) 72 “I Don’t Ghostride (featuring Shady Nate and Kaz Kyzah)” (Beeda Weeda) 206 “I Don’t Give a F*ck” (“IDGAF”) (2Pac) 192, 200–2 “I Got Cha Opin” (Black Moon) 83 Ibrahim, Nuh 115 Ice Cube 87 “Jackin for Beats” 87 identity 65–7, 160–1, 177–8, 186 European 159 Palestine and 121, 127 prisoners and 229 ideologies 49 “IDGAF” (2Pac) 200–1 “If I’d Go Back in Time” (DAM) 117, 118, 119, 122 Ignace, Marianne 134 IHHP (Indigenous Hip Hop Projects) 134, 140–4 “I’m the Best” (Minaj, Nicki) 28–9

immigrants 156, 158, 162–5, 168 see also emigration Immortal Technique 92, 250 “Freedom of Speech” 91 “Toast to the Dead, A” 250–1 In My Lifetime Vol. 1 (Jay–Z) 70 In the Belly of the Beast: Letters from Prison (1981) (Abbott, Jack) 214 Indigenous Hip Hop Projects (IHHP) 134, 140–4 indigenous peoples 130–1 see also minority groups Australia and 135–44 hip hop and 130–4, 139–44 inner city, the 221–3 intellectual property laws 80–2 see also copyright laws international studies 39 Invisible Man (1952) (Ellison, Ralph) 207 ‘Isa, Sheikh Imam 115 “Hymn to Justice” 117, 125 Italy 159 “It’s Still Rock and Roll To Me” (Billy Joel) 84 J–Diggs 205 “Ghost Ride It” 205–6 Ja Rule: “Grand Finale” 222–3 “Jackin for Beats” (Ice Cube) 87 Jackson, Henry “Big Bank Hank” 219–20 Jay-Z 106, 234, 244 Black Album 94 In My Lifetime Vol. 1 70 Magna Carta Holy Grail 32–3 “No Church in the Wild” 37–8 “Open Letter” 106 Reasonable Doubt 70 Vol 2 . . . Hard Knock Life 70 “Jimmie Diggin Cats” (Digable Planets) 87 Joel, Billy Bridge, The 84 “It’s Still Rock and Roll To Me” 84

Index “Joker, The” (Steve Miller Band) 84 Juicy J 26 “Bounce It” 26 Kahf, Usama 31 Katitjin, Kurongkurl 141–2 KDAY-AM 92 Keating, Paul 138 Kelley, Robin D. G.: Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class (1994) 4 Kenya 39 Kerner Report, the 107 Khalife, Marcel 115 Kim, Claire Jean 175 Kimmel, Michael 67 KISS-FM 92 Kistler, M. E. 23 “Kommissar, Der” (Falco) 155 Kraftwerk 82 KRS-One 9, 84 Kweli, Talib 251 Lamar, Kendrick: “m.A.A.d City” 33–4 language 123–5, 157, 181–5 see also pronouns Last Poets 7 Late Registration (West, Kanye) 70 Lee, M. J. 23 Leninism 197 Lifers Group 223–4 “Belly of the Beast” 224 Belly of the Beast, The (Spheeris, 1992) 224 “Real Deal, The” 224–5 Lil Wayne: I Am Not A Human Being 72 linguistic capital 46 Lo Cubano, A (Orishas) 180 “Lo Cubano, A” (“The Cuban Way”) (Orishas) 173, 177, 180–3, 186 “Long Live Palestine” (“Tears to Laughter”) (Lowkey) 117, 118, 119–21, 122–4, 125 Lorde, Audre 71 Lowkey:

271

“Long Live Palestine” (“Tears to Laughter”) 117, 118, 119–21, 122–4, 125 Ludacris (Christopher Bridges): Ludacris presents…Disturbing Tha Peace 72 Ludacris presents…Disturbing Tha Peace (Bridges (Ludacris)) 72 lyrics 21, 117–26, 162–4, 181–5 “m.A.A.d City” (Lamar) 33–4 McAdam, Doug 247 Mac Dre 203–5, 206 “Thizzle Dance” 192, 204 “Toyz” 203–4 McJosh 164 McLeod, Kembrew 30, 161 Madison, James 242 Magna Carta Holy Grail (Jay-Z) 32–3 Mahmoud, Mohamed 151–2 Mailer, Norman 214–15 Makss Damage 159 Malcolm X Grassroots Movement (MXGM) 10, 255–6 “Mali Huriye” (“I Don’t Have Freedom”) (DAM) 117, 121, 123, 124 Malone, Christopher 152 Maoism 197 marginalized masculinity 67–9 Markie, Biz 86, 87 “Alone Again” 86 “Cool V’s Tribute to Scratching” 87 Marshall Mathers LP 2, The (Eminem) 34 Martinez, George 14, 152, 240–2, 244–5 “Occupy Wall Street Hip-Hop Anthem” 251–3 politics and 257–9 Marxism 197 masculinity 60–5, 67–8, 69–71 principles governing 68 tropes of 67–9 mash-ups 94 mass attacks 160 Master Gee 219

272 Index

Maxwell, Ian 139 MC Eiht 33–4 MC Fler 151–2, 159 Neue Deutsche Welle 151 media 120 media ownership 92 Medina, Ruzzo 173, 178, 180–5 “Meen Erhabe?” (“Who’s a Terrorist?”) (Das Arabian MCs (DAM)) 116–25 “Mein Block” (“On My Block”) (Sido) 158 “Mein Ruf ist im Eimer” (Schönheitsfe(h)ler and Heinz) 156 mental health 141–2 message rap 89 Method Man: “Grand Finale” 222–3 middle–class, the 157, 167 Millatu Ibrahim 151 Miller, M. R. 36–7 Minaj, Nicki 28 “I’m the Best” 28–9 minority groups 136–7, 155 see also immigrants; indigenous peoples Mitchell, Tony 139–40 mixtapes 91–4, 216 Money B 83 Mor 159 morality 35–9 Moras, A. 23–4 Morgan, M. 24 movement 2 movement culture 2, 3 Mtafuta-Ukweli, Zizwe 9 murder rates 191–2 music, protest movements and 1 MXGM (Malcolm X Grassroots Movement) 10, 255–6 Myrdal, Gunnar: American Dilemma, An (1944) 200 N.W.A.: Efil4zaggin 91 “Nakba”, the 115 narratives 225–9 Nas 223

“Grand Finale” 222–3 Untitled 62–3 Nation of Islam (NOI) 197 National Hip Hop Political Convention (NHHPC) 13, 24 Native Hip Hop 133 neo–Nazism 151, 156, 159–60 Neue Deutsche Welle (MC Fler) 151 New H.N.I.C.: The Death of Civil Rights and the Reign of Hip Hop, The (2003) (Boyd, Ted) 4 New Jim Crow, The (2010) (Alexander, Michelle) 242–3 New York 7–8 New York City General Assembly (NYCGA) 236 see also OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Movement New Yorkers Against Budget Cuts 236 Newton, Huey P. 194, 196–8, 200 NHHPC (National Hip Hop Political Convention) 13, 24 niggas 101, 103 “No Church in the Wild” (Kanye West and Jay–Z) 37–8 NOI (Nation of Islam) 197 NYCGA (New York City General Assembly) 236 see also OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Movement O’Brien, Guy “Master Gee” 219 O’Sullivan, Gilbert 86 Oakland, California 190–1, 207 BPPSD and 194–8 emigration and 193–4 gangster rap and 198–203 hyphy music and 203–6 murder rates in 191–2 scholarship and 193 Obama, Barack 60 Occupy East New York 254 Occupy 477 255 Occupation Freedom “Occupy Wall Street Hip–Hop Anthem” 251–3 Occupy Milwaukee 239–40 Occupy River West 240 Occupy the Hood (OTH) 238–42, 254–5, 260

Index Occupy Wall Street (OWS) Movement see OWS Ocean, Frank 37 “Oh Pretty Woman” (Orbison, Roy) 84, 86 “Oh Pretty Woman” (2 Live Crew) 84–5, 86 “Open Letter” (Jay–Z) 106 oppression 119–20, 125–6 Orbison, Roy “Oh Pretty Woman” 84, 86 Orishas 173, 179–80 Lo Cubano, A 180 “Lo Cubano, A” (“The Cuban Way”) 173, 177, 180–3, 186 “Tumbando y Dando” (“Knocking Down and Striking”) 173, 178, 184–6 Osamare, Halifu: Hiplife in Ghana: West African Indigenization of Hip–Hop (2012) 4–5 OTH (Occupy the Hood) 238–42, 254–5, 260 Other, the 31–3, 68, 103 OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Movement 233–5, 246, 248 founding of 236 hip hop and 244–6, 248–53, 255–7, 259–60 Martinez, George and 240–2, 244–5 politics and 257–9 principles of 236–7 race and 235, 237–42, 244 P.R. “Prisoner, The” 117, 122 Palestine 111–13, 115 see also Palestinian hip hop non–violent resistance in 113–16 Palestinian hip hop 111–13, 114–17 inductive content analysis and 117–26 lyrics and 117–26 peaceful resistance and 117–27 Palestinian identity 121 Palestinian music 115–16

273

Pascoe, C. J.: Dude, You’re a Fag 66 peaceful resistance 112–13, 117–26 Pennay, Mark 154–5 People of Color Working Group 239, 241 performance 50–1 “Performative Acts” (1990) (Butler, Judith) 65 personal narratives 225–9 Petchauer, E. 20–1 Pharrell “Blurred Lines” 27–8 PHH (Project HIP–HOP (Highways Into the Past, History, Organizing, and Power)) 43–4, 45–55 Pitbull “Timber” 167 Piven, Frances Fox Poor People’s Movements (1977) 246 Planet–B Girls 25 “Planet Rock” (Africa Bambaataa Aasim) 82 pleasure 71 Pogo 201–2 police 191, 199–206, 256 politics 3, 9, 11–15, 191, 217–18 see also BPPSD (Black Panther Party for Self Defense) and Palestinian hip hop Millatu Ibrahim and 151 OWS and 257–9 protest movements and 24, 246–8, 257–9 see also OTH Poor People’s Movements (1977) (Piven, Frances Fox and Cloward, Richard) 246 “Prisoner, The” (P.R.) 117, 122 prisoners’ narratives 225–9 prisons 214–15, 217, 218, 220–30 Project HIP–HOP (Highways Into the Past, History, Organizing, and Power) (PHH) 43–4, 45–55 Project Unbreakable 27–8 pronouns 123–5, 182, 185 prophetic hip hop 217, 224

274 Index

protest movements 1, 24, 246–8, 253–6 see also OTH (Occupy the Hood) and OWS (Occupy Wall Street) Movement protest music 132–3 Public Enemy 85, 107 “Caught, Can We Get a Witness” 87 Puff Daddy 90 punishment 222 Pyrania “Human Equals Human” (“Mensch ist Mensch”) 167–8 Queen Mother Dr. Deloise Blakely 244 race 24, 29–35, 100–6, 219 see also black masculinity and white supremacy CRT (critical race theory) 67 Occupy the Hood (OTH) and 238–42 Occupy Wall Street (OWS) Movement and 235, 237–42, 244 Race Rebels: Culture, Politics, and the Black Working Class (1994) (Kelley, Robin D. G.) 4 race relations 175–6 racial segregation 221–2 racism 102–5, 153, 196, 243–4 Bloc Identitaire 159–60 Germany and 156 Oakland, California and 194, 201 radio 92, 105 Rahiem 220 Rahway State Prison 214, 223–6 rap 59, 61–3 black masculinity and 60–5, 69–73 commercial 63–4, 70, 72–4 masculinity and 60–5, 67–8, 69–70 message rap 89 rap nationalism 9 Rap the Vote 12 rape 27–8, 105, 119 “Rapper’s Delight” (Sugarhill Gang) 7, 8, 80, 219–21 Ready to Die (B.I.G.) 62–3

“Real Deal, The” (Lifers Group) 224–5 Reasonable Doubt (Jay–Z) 70 Rebel Diaz Arts Collective 254–5 Rebollo–Gil, G. 23–4 recording industry 91–4 Reebok 105 Reed, Lou “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” 84 register 177 religion 35–9 resistant capital 46, 48 Revolutions Per Minute 133 Rhassan, Malik 238–9, 259–60 rhyme 159–60 right wing, the 156, 159–60, 167 Rise and Fall of the White Republic, The (1990) (Saxton, Alexander) 243 “Rise Up Hip Hop Nation” (Wright, Kristine) 105 Rithm (George Martinez) 14 see also Martinez, George rituals 51–2 Rock the Vote 12 Rocko “U.O.E.N.O.” 105 Rodgers, Nile 80 Rodman, G. 31 Rodriquez, J. 32 Roediger, David 243 Roots, The 90 “roots of the party, The” (Black Panther Party for Self Defense (BPPSD)) 192, 196–7 Rose, Tricia Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America (1994) 4 Hip Hop Wars, The (2008) 44 Ross, J. N. 22–3 Ross, Rick 105 Roth, Claudia 150 Russia 160 sampling 20, 82–5, 220 intellectual property laws and 80 legal decisions and 85–90

Index Saxton, Alexander Rise and Fall of the White Republic, The (1990) 243 Schönheitsfe(h)ler 155–6 “A Guata Tag” 155–6 “Mein Ruf ist im Eimer” 156 Scott, James 176 Seale, Bobby 194, 197 Sex Packets (Digital Underground) 83 sexism 21–9, 153 see also rape sexual health 143 sexual scripting 22 Shelby County v. Holder (2013) 62 Shibastik (Chris Sutherland) 134 “Hand Drum” 134 Shocklee, Hank 85, 87 shout outs 83, 84, 219 Sido 158 “Mein Block” (“On My Block”) 158 Simmons, Russell 12, 249–50 slavery 173–5, 242 Sloane, Cle “Bone” Bastards of the Party (2005) 107 social capital 45, 50–2 social justice 47–8, 132–3 history of 48–9 social structures de facto systems and 66–7 de jure systems and 66–7 Soul of the City 10 SoundScan 91 South Africa 8, 100–1 “Speedin’ (featuring San Quinn and Big Seff)” (Hoodstarz) 206 Steve Miller Band “Joker, The” 84 stop and frisk 256 Stop the Violence Movement 9 street credibility 165–7 see also authenticity “Stress ohne Grund” (“Stress without Reason”) (Bushido) 150 subcultural capital 161 subordinated masculinity 67–9 Sugar Hill Records 80 Sugarhill Gang 219 “Rapper’s Delight” 7, 8, 80, 219–21

275

Sutherland, Chris (Shibastik) 134 “Hand Drum” 134 Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song (Van Peebles, Melvin) 102 T. I. “Blurred Lines” 27–8 “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” (Reed, Lou) 84 Take Back the Music 25 Tanzania 39 Tarrow, Sydney 247 Telecommunications Act 1996 92 “Tent Embassy” 137–8 terra nullius 135–6 terrorists 121–2, 125 Thicke, Robin “Blurred Lines” 27–8 “Thizzle Dance” (Mac Dre) 192, 204 360HipHop 12 thug–life 22 “Timber” (Pitbull) 167 “Toast to the Dead, A” (Immortal Technique) 250–1 Tören, Sekran 150–1 Torres Indigenous Hip Hop Project 143 Torres Strait Islanders 134–43 “Toyz” (Mac Dre) 203–4 “Trapped” (2Pac) 200 Tribe Called West, A “Can I Kick It?” 84 truthfulness 120 Tryon Residential Facility for Boys 214 “Tumbando y Dando” (“ Knocking Down and Striking”) (Orishas) 173, 178, 184–6 Tunisia 39 Turks 162–5 2 Live Crew 84–5 “Oh Pretty Woman” 84–5, 86 2Pac “I Don’t Give a F*ck” (“IDGAF”) 192, 200–2 “Trapped” 200 2Pacalypse Now 200 2Pacalypse Now (2Pac) 200

276 Index

“U.O.E.N.O.” (Rocko) 105 Uhuru, Ife Johari 238 underground culture 90, 92, 95, 152–3, 165–8 see also Oakland, Califronia gender and 162–5 United Kingdom 157 United Nations 11 Universal Zulu Nation 8, 255 Untitled (Nas) 62–3 urban centers 221–3 Van Peebles, Melvin 102 Sweet Sweetback’s Badasssss Song 102 Video Girls 23 Vienna 162, 165–6 see also Austria Villain 051 167 violence 118–19, 125, 191 see also hyphy music and prisons murder rates 191–2 Oakland, California and 191–2, 195–202 VIVA Freestyle 154 Vol 2 . . . Hard Knock Life (Jay–Z) 70 Voting Rights Act 1965 (VRA) 62 VRA (Voting Rights Act) 62 Wacquant, Loïc 221, 223 Walker, David 196 war 125–6 War on Drugs 89 wealth 90, 234–5 weapons 118–19

Wedeen, Lisa 177 West, Kanye 63–4 black masculinity and 70 College Dropout 70 Graduation 70 Late Registration 70 “No Church in the Wild” 37–8 Occupy Movement and 249–50 whirl trade 102–8 White, James 11, 13 white supremacy 239–43 Whitlam, Gough 137–8 “Who’s a Terrorist” (DAM) 116–25 Wiener Identitäre Richtung (WIR) 160 Wild Style (Ahearn, 1982) 8 Williams, Pharrell “Happy” 167 Williams, Robert F. 196 Wilson, William Julius 221 WIR (Wiener Identitäre Richtung) 160 Wise Intelligent 106–7 women 24, 122, 126 see also feminism and gender and sexism Wonder Mike 219 Wright, Kristine “Rise Up Hip Hop Nation” 105 Wright “Wonder Mike” Michael 219 YAC (Youth Affordabili(T) Coalition) 51 Youth Affordabili(T) Coalition (YAC) 51 Yun, Lisa 175–6