Here are five things you may have missed on Twitter this week.
Apologies that there wasn’t a Friday Five last week. I was eating my way around New York.
1. When the reality star with a big derriere and a child named after compass points released yet another photo of her naked body parts with the hashtag #breaktheinternet, Twitter responded with it’s own trending topic: #fixtheinternet.
“If you having a good time, I want you to say, ‘Hell yeah, niggaaaaaaaaaa!”
“Hell yeah, niggaaaaaaaaaa!” the crowd screamed back at Lil Wayne.
I scanned the stadium of concert goers: a sea of young, white and light faces surrounded me, bopping their heads to the beat, hip-hop hands swaying in the air, phone cameras recording and repeating at Lil Wayne’s command,
Helllllll yeah, niggaaaaaaaaa!!
I looked over at my friend, who, like me, hadn’t joined the crowd.
“What the hell?” I mouthed at her, as my face contorted itself into surprise and disapproval.
This was the situation at a concert I attended in Orange County, California (“OC”) a few years ago. Orange County’s black population is similar to Utah’s in number. That is to say: nearly non-existent. Still, I didn’t expect to be such an obvious minority at a hip-hop concert headlined by black artists. I know white suburban teenagers are now the largest consumers of hip-hop, and Orange County is like one giant suburb, so really I shouldn’t have surprised me. But, there’s what you know and what you actually see for yourself.
Last year while in San Francisco’s Mission district with a friend, we overheard three teenagers shouting in conversation:
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Daaaamn, fool!’ “Yeah, that nigga’s cray.”
They all laughed.
My friend and I turned to each other, the same “Did you just hear that?!” looks on our faces. None of the teens were black.
“Huh,” I exhaled. “So, that’s what’s going on now?”
It’s time like these when I feel my age. I resisted the urge to use my budding “kids these days” voice or wag my disapproving finger while giving them an impromptu history lesson on the “n-word.” They weren’t using the word in a hurtful manner. The way the kid said it, the word carried the same weight as someone saying “snow is white.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard a teenager cavalierly use the word “nigga.” I’ve heard it from the mouths of black, white, Asian and Latino people. People who no doubt count themselves among a large and diverse group of hip-hop fans.
I’m not sure how to feel about this.
No matter how many times I hear people attempt to explain that using the derivative “nigga” is a way of reclaiming the word, stripping it of its power, I can’t buy into that argument. It is a word based in hate. As long as there are people hatefully hurling the word at black people with intent to wound and stake their superiority, that word is still mighty powerful. Even seeing it written stirs up emotion. If other black people choose to use it, that’s their prerogative. It’s not for me. Honestly, I don’t know that I will ever feel comfortable hearing any form of the word escape the lips of someone not black, outside of an academic discussion, and even then I may involuntarily wince.
It was less than 10 years ago when my youngest sister’s white classmate mean-girled her and nastily declared,
“No one wants to sit next to her because she’s a nigger.”
It hurt me to hear of the incident because I’d hoped, naïvely, that by the time my youngest sister reached the cruelest years of school, that kind of prejudiced language would lose favor with her generation. Just thinking of the experience still angers my sister. The girl made her life “a living hell.” I had hoped she could avoid some of the race-related pain her older sisters and parents endured growing up. Unfortunately, the power of the word persists.
The incident at the Lil Wayne concert forced me, once again, to face the cognitive dissonance of my hip-hop fandom.
I recognize that by listening to certain hip-hop artists, attending their concerts or streaming their music, I’m part of the problem. Just as I wish that magazines would quit covering Kim Kardashian’s every move and cleavage-baring ensemble, yet I’ll still click on a link to see her latest fashion atrocity, thereby reinforcing her (perceived) popularity.
I listen to hip-hop despite the liberal use of “nigga” in many songs and the fact that I have issues with the themes (violence, misogyny, celebration of drug slinging) and language (bitch, ho, THOT) in some songs and videos. Last year, popular rapper Rick Ross came under fire for the lyrics in his song “U.O.E.N.O”:
Put molly all in her champagne / She ain’t even know it / I took her home and I enjoyed that / She ain’t even know it.
– Rick Ross, U.O.E.N.O
His lyrics seem to describe drugging a woman by secretly slipping molly in her drink and then having sex with her. Many felt his lyrics diminished the seriousness of date rape and even glorified it. He claimed his lyrics were “misinterpreted.” The lyrics disgusted, but did not surprise me. This isn’t the first time he’s penned sickening verses. I’m not the biggest Rick Ross fan, or a fan at all really, but I can’t pretend his “Blowin’ Money Fast” doesn’t get me pushing out my lips and nodding my head.
How do you reconcile liking music that at times is regressive, offensive and sexist with your personal values and morals?
It’s easy to take the simplistic view: “Why not just stop listening to it?’
The problem is, I grew up on this stuff. It’s part of my history, it’s part of my culture. Rap and hip-hop evolvedfrom the forms of music my parents exposed me to. Those same soul, funk and R&B songs from the ’60s, 70s’ and 80s’ that P Diddy – and later other hip-hop producers, following his lead – made a career out of samplin, laying rap verses atop and producing hit after danceable hit. Songs released during my formative high school and college years.
Of course, Diddy’s lyrics are practically granny-safe compared to some of today’s artists like Eminem, Juicy J or Schoolboy Q. Jay-Z and Kanye West had to go and release a song titled, “Niggas in Paris,” causing panic and confusionamong many when singing it aloud in mixed company.
I can’t help but grin thinking of the self-aggrandizing lyrics rampant in many a verse of today’s rap, that give me a brief feeling of extra bravado. You know what I mean. It’s that extra swag some dudes seem to think they have as they blare T.I. from their cars.
I also appreciate the talent of true lyricists who can write and spit an impressive collection of words strung together in clever ways. If you’ve ever tried rapping, even just karaoke, you know it’s not easy, especially freestyle. It requires talent, confidence and showmanship.
At the core, I listen to hip-hop for its high energy. I just plain enjoy listening to music I can dance to. I’ve had many a solo dance party in my apartment, turning my living room into a club floor, free of groping hands and spilled beer.
There’s also a bit of, “If I have to take a stance against everything in the world that’s morally tainted, what will be left to enjoy?”
Not all hip-hop artists use misogynistic language or praise illegal activity. There’s a long list of “conscious” rappers making music, some of whom struggle to sustain careers if they don’t break into the mainstream – where the real money is. I listen to a handful of these rappers and it’s always a pleasant surprise to discover a hip-hop artist who really has something to say. Even Lil Wayne – for all his rapping about smoking weed, sipping sizzurp and his affinity for lady parts – is actually quite witty.
Every so often we come across art laden with poignancy that moves us. I think that’s a beautiful, but uncommon experience. Just as there are “popcorn flicks”, Oscar-winning films and myriad film categories in between, the same goes for hip-hop. I don’t need profundity from everything I listen to.
Last month I went to a Wiz Khalifa concert with my middle sister. When Wiz shouted to his fans, “Say ‘Dat’s my niggaaaaa.'” My sister glanced at me with a questioning look and a smile. She knows how I feel about this. I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
I asked my sister after the concert, “Is this one of those things where this is just how it’s gonna be? And I can either choose to adapt and accept it or be that annoying grumpy old person?” She shrugged.
I used to love getting mail. Remember back when the internet only existed in secrecy and you had to physically write letters to people? In junior high I had a French penpal. We’d write back and forth practicing our kindergarten-level language skills. My letters to her probably translated to something like:
“Hello, my French friend. How are you? I am teenager. It’s not fun as think. Have zits. How say zits in French? Zeut alors! Do go to discotechques? You are amiable. Texas hot. Thanks. Write back now.”
I loved getting letters back from her. But, really I loved getting anything in the mail. I would write to companies for information, just so I could get mail. It seemed wondrous to get return mail back from exotic places like Pueblo, CO. On Saturdays, I eagerly awaited the mailman’s arrival, with the enthusiasm of a wagging dog tail. He was a man who made things happen. One day my parents decided to put an end to my mail obsession. They forbid me and my sisters from checking the mail. They may as well have just told me that George Michael and I would never be. I refused to hear this! That was the beginning of me thinking my parents were spies in the CIA. Of course I couldn’t check the mail, I might intercept one of their top secret government letters.
Today I hate the mail. Let’s take a look at some of the mail I receive now.
Victoria’s Secret Catalogs
These are eight catalogs I’ve received from Victoria’s Secret in the last two months. This photo doesn’t even capture the ones I threw away on sight in disgust at them flaunting their tree-hating ways. Just how many pairs of boobs does Victoria’s Secret think I have? And while my ass is biggish, I’ve managed to get by with only wearing one pair of underwear at a time for years. So, what’s up with all the catalogs? Are they trying to keep the paper industry in business? Are they determined to have every American female wear pants with writing on the butt?
Never Forget: You are Not a Woman, You Are a Vessel
I’ve received a couple of these wonderful, no pressure, informational leaflets from my insurance company, Blue Cross:
How come no one told me I’m pregnant? The last time I visited the lady doctor, did she check for everything but the baby?! I’ve been tossing back shots like spring break in Mexico on the regular. My poor, unacknowledged, drunken fetus. Or could it be that I’m not pregnant? That my health insurance company is profiling me? “Ah, see, a woman in her 30s, let’s baby mail bomb her! Surely someone will be sticking a bun in her oven soon! And it’s springtime! Who doesn’t want to get pregnant in the spring?” What if I don’t want to have kids? What if I can’t have kids?
Look, Blue Cross, get out of my uterus! A single woman of a certain age gets enough baby pressure as is: parents; my general practitioner; anytime US Weekly has a sad photo of Jennifer Aniston and her “baby woes” on the cover; a random prescient homeless woman (“Gurl, you gotta get knocked up soon! Yo’ eggs gon’ dry up!” Ok, maybe that last bit never happened, but you get my point.). I don’t need pressure delivered by snail mail. I get it. My eggs are feeling useless and weeping. Once a month as another is released, the others cheer it on, “Get it girl, get fertilized, this is your time!” Then as the egg passes on into the ether, the rest fall into a deep depression. I don’t think they understand exactly how things work in that area. Can I get Prozac just for my eggs?
Then there are the bills, the bills and the bills. Destiny’s Child had it right: “Can you pay my bills? Maybe then we can chill.” ‘Cause I’m sick of looking at the damn things. Time Warner, your internet service is subpar. Can I just pay you what I I think you’re worth? Here’s two dollars.
Everyone Should be a Teen Mom!
My latest mailman is definitely not the man of my dreams. The mailbox at my current apartment is super small. A mailbox fit for an ewok. I can’t even fit packages of illegal drugs in there. There goes that side business. As a result, he’d taken to sticking my US Weeklys in the mailbin. [Yes, I have a subscription to US Weekly. Don’t wrinkle your intellectually snooty nose at me. I think for a living. My brain needs a vacation from time to time.] The mailbin where any shifty Teen Mom-obsessed nutcase can steal them, and steal them they have. I missed out on seeing the photos of Kim Kardashian’s latest giant-ass stunt with Kanye because of my mailman. We gon’ fight, dude.
I may or may not have sent some goons (that word doesn’t enough love these days) to his house to help him see the light. My US Weeklys are now being safely deposited in my mailbox. Never again will I have to live in fear that I will answer “I don’t know” when asked what’s going on with The Bachelor behind the scenes, because even though I don’t watch that maddening show, US keeps me in-the-know.
Between the the tree-killers, the shame leaflets, the bills and the magazine kidnapping, I’ve lost a lot of love for the mail and subsequently my love affair with the mailman came to an end. I appreciate the job mail carriers do. I really do. But, rarely do they bring me good news. One day I’d love to check my mail and find a bag of Popeye’s chicken, courtesy of a fine-ass male, mail carrier. Until that day comes, me and the mail carriers are like ketchup and lays chips – we don’t belong together (I’m looking at you, Canada).
I'm Keisha ("Kee-shuh", not to be confused with Ke$ha). I am a (later) thirty-something, non-mommy, non-wife, who lives in San Francisco, California New York and has lots of opinions on lots of things.