My point in recounting my story is that, through the course of my life, I have benefitted enormously from white, cis-gender male privilege in ways that I never gave much thought to until I started listening to, studying, and—most importantly—teaching about rap music and hip hop culture. I came to realize that rap music could be a powerful tool—a point of entry—into having conversations about race and social justice (in particular) with my predominantly white students. At the same time, I realize that by virtue of my position, I am profiting from the suffering of people of color. By profiting, I mean not just financially, but personally and professionally as well. I am a guest in the house of hip hop (to borrow the title from Mickey Hess’s book). I come to it first and foremost through my musical training, and I learned about the social and political aspects of the genre along the way. My framework for thinking about my relationship to hip hop continues to evolve, and I acknowledge that I’ve made many mistakes over the course of my scholarly career. I wrote my first book with the hope that it could be used to teach casual fans of rap how to listen more critically, and to consider how they can begin to engage in anti-racism. I embark on this new project with people—specifically white people—who teach rap music in mind. Becoming antiracist is work, and it’s ongoing: I’m still a work in progress myself. This project is part of the progress for me, and I hope it can be for you too.
* * *
If you're a white person who listens to rap, I invite you to think long and hard about why you listen to it. Do you love the lyrics? Can you recite every rhyme? Do you know what the lyrics are about—what they're really about? Or are you someone (like I was at the beginning) who just loved the beats and nodded along to the kick drum and bass line? Saul Williams writes in The Dead Emcee Scrolls, "When the beat drops, people nod their heads 'yes." Ask yourself: "what am I nodding 'yes' to?" Maybe the lyrics aren't that interesting or important to you, or you can't quite understand what they're talking about. If you don't know, or don't want to know, that's a privilege, and—I would say—a problem.
Learn where the music came from. Read Jeff Chang's Can't Stop, Won't Stop; watch Wild Style or Hip-Hop Evolution. Read Tricia Rose’s landmark books Black Noise and The Hip-Hop Wars, Imani Perry’s Prophets of the Hood, and Robin D. G. Kelley’s essay, "Kickin' Reality, Kickin' Ballistics: Gangsta Rap in Postindustrial Los Angeles." If you don’t like rap, or you find yourself in conversation with someone who doesn’t like rap, consider what the criticisms are based on. It’s just fine if it doesn't appeal to your taste: I don't like country music, or electronic dance music (EDM). Just doesn't do it for me. Do you dislike rap because rappers “don't speak proper English?" Is it because "they can't even sing?" Is it because "they don't even play instruments? They just push buttons and scratch up records?" Is it because "they just steal other people's music and call it their own?" Is it because "all they do is rap about guns, drugs, and hos?" Those criticisms are all racist. They have nothing to with one's taste, or musical abilities, and have everything to do with stereotypes of Black Americans that have been circulating for centuries (similar criticisms also plagued jazz, blues, early rock and roll). Ask yourself why they might not be speaking “proper” English—better yet, ask yourself what “proper English” really is, and who benefits from its usage. Ask yourself why singing and melody are so important to you (and it’s fine if they are important). Ask yourself what constitutes a musical instrument and why turntables, drum machines, and laptops might not qualify. Ask yourself what it means to accuse a person you’ve never met of stealing someone else’s (intellectual) property. Ask yourself why they rap about guns, drugs, and hos: does rap music create the conditions they’re rapping about, or does it reflect them? Consider as a whole the consequences of the beliefs that underlie your answers. I tell my students that I’m not trying to convert them into fans: it’s fine with me if they don’t like the music, but they need to be able to articulate clearly why they don’t like it.
Conversations like this are a good way in to talking about race with your friends (and, I guess, your enemies). If you are new to reflecting on your privileges, thinking about and talking about race, there are quite a few good books available that can help you get started on your journey, most published in the last few years: Ijeoma Oluo’s So You Want to Talk About Race, Crystal Fleming’s How to be Less Stupid About Race, and Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist. Documentaries like Ava DuVernay’s 13th and Eugene Jarecki’s The House I Live In examine the way racist policies shape the United States’ system of mass incarceration. For deeper dives into how racist policies shape our daily lives, consider Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow, Joe Feagin’s The White Racial Frame, Ian Haney Lopez’s White By Law, Eduardo Bonilla-Silva’s Racism Without Racists, and Kendi’s Stamped from the Beginning.