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Month: April 2007

can’t see the panties from the grass

Five blue Canadian dollars to whoever can scout the reference in that title.

It’s been a fast minute since I’ve had any desire to read or write anything vaguely rap-blog-related, but that changed when someone sent me the link to this, this, and this on the XXL website today. I’ve been out of this loop on purpose, but right now feels like a good time to throw down some cents.

Let me preface this by saying that I’m a relativist, and believe that a tailored cocktail of perspectives underlies every last one of our tastes and interpretations. Me (female, ESL, downtown-raised, whatever) and you (male, fifth-generation something, suburban-raised, whatever) are bound to have some different opinions on things. So, FOR EXAMPLE, when a man jumps in with his thoughts on females and hip hop (representations within; contributions to; impact on; etc), I already know that his perspective’s going to smell funny to me in at least a few different ways.

Rules are made up by the folks who hold the reins. The most powerful, dominant voices in every community set down laws that protect their interests — it’s always been this way. This is how punishable crimes, monetary values, and socio-cultural definitions get their measure. There’s no science to it. I’m bigger and I can fuck you up — take my word as law or else. The end.

And so, I find the overall three-part conversation on XXL pretty interesting. Not because of what is said, but because of the borders it’s bound by.

To me the “female principle” is, or at least historically has been, basically anarchic. It values order without constraint, rule by custom not by force. It has been the male who enforces order, who constructs power structures, who makes, enforces, and breaks laws.

– Ursula K. Le Guin

In high school English class, we read Ursula Le Guin’s “A Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction” (here are the first two pages, plus the fifth — copyrights, yanno) as part of an introduction to feminist theory. We only spent one or two days on it, but it stuck with me for the rest of that semester, and far far beyond. It wasn’t just about the flip side to some male-female dichotomy of differing opinions — that’s really kind of a lazy way of positioning it. What it really did was blow my mind wide open to the vast potential for how to craft and consume a piece of work, apart from the possibilities that had already been carved, drilled and established.

In that essay, Le Guin challenges the idea of a story as hero + conflict + climax + resolution. She rejected that a story could only be shaped like an arrow, with one unmalleable and inevitable direction and target. Why not, she wondered, shift away from the hunter mentality and into a gatherer state of mind? Why couldn’t a story be shaped more like a bag instead — holding many pieces and possibilities, drawing them out as needed or desired.

I wonder what she’d have to say about the ultra-conservative watchdoggies of rap. She’d probably laugh at the criteria for what makes a good rap song, or at the painstaking back-and-forth on whether or not Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation “counts” as a hip hop album because she sings too much. Spittin hard over a beat is the arrow, but she roamed too far over some guitar strings and lost the hunter-hero’s attention, I guess.

As it stands, there’s not much room for different shapes in hip hop or rap “criticism”. A “best of” list is a lot like an arrow — it starts in one spot, ends in another, and flows in one distinct line, to a sharpened point. Rap looks like this. A rap album looks like that. This culture/gender discussion, as with nearly every related discussion I’ve either be a part of or eavesdropped on, is being played out according to a set of rules that were put in place before my time, but could I possibly be the only one that’s bored by these rules? That’s bored of arguing in circles under an umbrella of definitions that was designed to only allow for one sort of argument anyway?

Industry success, impact, dopeness. Arrow, arrow, arrow. We’ve shaped them all the same, and for no good reason.

Am I crazy? Are there similar (better, smarter, eloquent) arguments out there that I don’t know about? I need to think on this further… A part two is to come soon, possibly maybe.

one shot to the rib

I spend one evening a week helping out at a community centre downtown. Right now I’m spending some time with a group of 12 to 15-year-old girls, working on a radio documentary. The idea they had decided on with their other facilitator was to produce an “unauthorized biography” of their neighbourhood. “People think that we’re just about drugs and violence,” they said. “We want to show them what it’s really like. All the good stuff.” We spent some time talking about internalized stereotypes, what kinds of stories they wanted to tell, about their talented friends, their favourite neighbourhood characters, and how they were going to put their segments together. Our last session was particularly great. Their energy was excited and positive, and they had even done some preliminary interview work. We played with microphones and they spent some time recording soundscapes around the rec centre. We went over time and no one even noticed. It was about a quarter past eight when we finally wrapped up and said peace for another week.

I won’t make claims or exaggerate the shittiness of the neighbourhood I grew up in, because that’s not the point, but I will say that there’s nothing alien or alarming to me about the sound of gunshots. That’s why, standing at the streetcar stop after our session that night, hiding from the rain, I hardly paid attention when I heard a blast from around the corner. Generally speaking, when you hear gunfire, you don’t walk towards the sound.

“Nahh,” I thought. “That’s not a gunshot. That sounded too hollow, too muffled.” I shrugged as I watched two dudes break into a run, tripping over themselves as they darted from out front of the rec centre across the street. I wasn’t phased when I heard sirens either. When I saw two of my girls from the group standing on the corner, frantically waving down the first cop cars on the scene… that’s when I got concerned.

People wonder why no one ever wants to talk to the cops, how in a crowded space with a number of witnesses, nobody ever sees anything. There are at least a few big reasons why that happens. When someone looks at you, you can generally tell right away whether they’re looking at you with the curiosity of an individual, or with a disdain reserved for those they already have their minds made up about. Throw a power imbalance into the mix, and the difference between the two becomes that much sharper, easier to spot.

One of the first cops to arrive and step onto the sidewalk took up the job of herding the people standing around, combing for eyewitness information. Her arms outstretched stiff, head moving from side to side to scope the group of us standing out in the rain, she asked mechanically:


Sounding like a robotic parrot. No emotion. No pausing for answers. My strong gut instinct was to get the hell away from this cold repellent woman, to recoil, so I wasn’t surprised when all the dudes who had been standing by their friend on the ground started to inch away from the scene. Nobody saw anything. Nobody wanted to talk.

It crossed my mind for a moment that I should somehow be documenting that moment. The kids, as they stumbled out from playing pool or basketball inside the rec centre, walking right past the lights and muted chaos with disinterested expressions. I thought of bringing out my minidisc recorder and mic, of talking to some of that one boy on the ground’s high school friends about… About what? The journalist mentality suddenly disgusted me, and I quickly killed the thought.

As I watched two of my girls go through the same post-shooting motions they had gone through so many times before, as I watched a woman from up the block shake her head angrily at the dumb beef that was invariably at the centre of this incident, as I watched one young man struggle with emotion at seeing his friend on the ground, as I watched the hard and blank expressions of the twelve-year-olds that shuffled past, I couldn’t help catching some emotion as well.

When I met Jamel Shabazz a few short weeks ago, he and I exchanged some words on the subject of today’s climate of hatred, of nothingness, of emptiness, of nowhere and noway and nohow and nolove. Of self-sabotage taken to the extreme. Of this North American-built wasteland of disconnection and cracked social dominoes.

This wasn’t my reality growing up. These barriers are so different from the barriers that held me down when I was fifteen. This anger is so different from my anger. So different from my hate.

A decade ago, a film like La Haine climaxes and ends in gunshots – violence – death roughly an hour and a half in. Today, that movie would have been over much, much sooner.