Hip-Hop Feminist

When I come across blatant misogyny in mainstream articles; clichés, stereotypes and sexist jokes that are enjoyed tolerated or ignored, I often ask myself; Would this be acceptable if it was written about black people?
In most cases it wouldn’t be. It would not be acceptable for a college newspaper to publish an article about how black people who go to nightclubs are sluts. It would not be acceptable for a respectable news channel to label a news segment about a black celebrity with a racial epithet. At the same time though, just last week a recognized comedian launched into a hate tirade against the black people heckling his standup routine. How can we even consider having defeated prejudice when Mel Gibson decides to defend him?

As a black woman, racism and misogyny have impacted my life in ways I will never be able to detangle. I know what hurts the most though. What hurts the most is when race and gender collide, are fighting the other for prominence as though there isn’t enough oppression to go ‘round.

I bow at the altar of the stereo system, my hands search through the hundreds of CDs sprawled all over the floor, looking for that one song. I’m looking for that perfect song that will enhance my mood like a drug would, giving synesthetic qualities to my senses so I can taste my pain, hear my joy or feel my sadness in my skin.

Music is my sustenance. I can taste a good song like fresh bread; it is an experience, not just a series of sounds. There have been moments where I have felt a song run through my body like an orgasm, times when I have worshipped an album like a giving goddess, cried like a child as guitar solo spoke to me.

Hip-hop music. This is where my love of music, my class, gender and race all seem to intersect. Hip-hop music is my internal battleground where my feminism fights my devotion to a genre of music which is more than just a sound but a voice for many black people of my generation. And what an apt battleground it is, hip-hop music is often the music of rebellion, and began as the sole outlet that disenchanted black youths, struggling in the ghetto. From Grandmaster Flash’s The Message to Lil Wayne’s Georgia…Bush , hip-hop music was and still is a voice to be reckoned with.

I found myself trying to explain my conflict to a male friend as I danced in the kitchen to a misogynistic soundtrack. We were listening to some underground Jamaican dancehall music. A familiar driving bass line comes on and my hips respond automatically. A guy calling himself Baby G begins his verse. His accent is part Jamaican, part London youth and he plays with words in a way that sounds like snow to my lyrical crackhead ears. Once I begin to pay attention to the words, my brow furrows and my friend asks me what’s up. I repeat the offending lines for him:

“I’m not one to eat your pussy like a steamed fish, but if you give me head I’ll never call you bitch.”

I sigh, the song continues in much the same vein. There goes my musical erection…

If this post seems to seesaw I apologize. I am still trying to work out my own conflicts. I am a daughter of feminist privilege. Yes, sexism defines my existence but so does the fundamental belief that my mother instilled in me as soon as I could grasp the concept; that I can be whoever I choose because I am a woman. This is my dilemma, I cannot not listen to hip-hop music and yet when I do I feel as though I am taking the hard work of the feminists who came before me for granted.

How can I, in good conscience detail my experiences on this website as some sort of standard for other young women to relate to when you can sometimes find me in a club grinding as the Ying Yang Twins whisper like sexual predators;

“Wait ‘till you see my dick, hey bitch.”

(My mind is conflicted, the whole time, I swear)

I was beating myself about it the other day when I came across a quote by self-proclaimed Hip-Hop Feminist Joan Morgan.

Black women can no more be defined by the cumulative sum of our pain than blackness can be defined solely by the transgenerational atrocities delivered at the hands of American racism. Because black folks are more than the stench of the slave ship, the bite of the dogs or the smoldering of freshly lynched flesh. In both cases, defining ourselves solely by our oppression denies us the very magic of who we are. My feminism simply refuses to give sexism or racism that much power.

It was at that moment that I realized I shouldn’t be feeling so awful about my choices. It’s not my fault that mainstream hip-hop has been so watered down that no one seems to remember its true power. It’s not my fault that hip-hop has been appropriated and commercialized to the extent that no one seems to realize that feminists and conscious hip-hop artists have always been fighting the same fight against capitalist patriarchal oppression.

I love hip-hop because it challenges me wholly; mind, body, soul, the whole shebang. Now I am forced to challenge hip-hop. Give me a good message to dance to because I’m not going to quit dancing.

A couple more things:

-If you’re looking for good hip-hop minus the misogyny then I urge you to check out artists like Damian Marley, Lauren Hill, M.I.A., Queen Latifah and Salt N Pepa.

-Secondly, tomorrow is World Aids Day. 39.5 million worldwide are living with HIV. Almost one in 200 Americans is infected and 25 percent of them don't know it. Young people are the fastest growing group infected with HIV. Women, especially black women, are increasingly at risk. If you haven’t been tested recently, find a health center near you that is offering free testing. If you have, take this opportunity to learn about HIV/AIDS or to spread what you do know about it.

Some resources:
World AIDS Day Website

The Body

Until There's a Cure