What The Notorious BIG Can Tell Us About Race and Immigration

In Black Identities, Harvard sociologist Mary Waters analyzes the racial and ethnic identities of first and second generation West Indian immigrants in New York City. At its core, Black Identities is a study of paradox. Waters eloquently states, “[For West Indians], America is a contradictory place…a land of greater opportunities than their homelands but simultaneously a land of racial stigma and discrimination. Immigrants readily buy into an image of American affluence, but are grounded in American racial and economic realities. One respondent noted despair that America is a “white world” in which “white people have all the money,” but in the same breath rejoiced in the fact that America is “a place where everyone has opportunity.” This is the inherent contradiction of the “American dream:” First generation West Indian immigrants must reconcile their lofty expectations of achievement with the myth of American social mobility as they grapple with structural and interpersonal racism in their day-to-day lives.

Second generation West Indian immigrants are also directly confronted with uniquely American race relations, resulting in contradictory immigrant identities. On the one hand, some immigrants embrace their Caribbean ancestry and construct social boundaries separating themselves from black Americans. On the other hand, many young, second generation West Indians (a plurality of her sample) buy into the uniquely American racial caste system and self-identify as black, abandoning other “ethnic options.” There wouldn’t be anything wrong with indentifying as “black,” if of course a slew of disadvantages and prejudices didn’t follow as a result. When race collides and interacts with social structure and culture, West Indian immigrant identity precariously wavers between ethnic loyalty and American assimilation. Paradoxically, the choice to remain loyal to their West Indian heritage affords these immigrants more social mobility than direct incorporation into American culture, as buying into American stereotypes often means downward mobility.

Sound familiar? Oddly reminiscent of a certain Brooklyn born rap legend? Indeed, The Notorious BIG represents an interesting case study—and exemplar—of Waters’ extensive empirical data. Biggie was born to a hardworking, loving Jamaican immigrant mother. While his father was largely absent from his life, Biggie’s mother held steady employment as a pre-school teacher and by all accounts was an involved parent. She enrolled her son in a private middle school in Brooklyn where he thrived academically. This scholastic success, of course, came to an end when Biggie began selling drugs at age 12. A (pun intended) notorious crack dealer, he eventually dropped out of high school, only to reach temporary stardom but ultimately suffer an untimely death.

A scene near the beginning of the recent biopic Notorious, in which Biggie’s character exhibits admiration and lust for the life of a street hustler, is telling. Waters’ research suggests that Biggie’s identity as a second generation West Indian immigrant could have, presumably, led him to continue his studies and perhaps achieve upward mobility—distancing himself both from the general stereotypes of American blacks and the actual hustlers in his immediate surroundings. But, when confronted with the reality of American race relations—in this example, Bed-Stuy/Clinton Hill in the early ‘90s—Biggie could have just as easily been propelled to identify more with the black Americans selling drugs on the corner by his house. Like many poor second generation West Indian immigrants, Biggie lacked local models of success, a disparity caused by urban economic marginalization and resulting in a push to identify with a certain type of black American.

Big had an ethnic “choice,” sure; claim his Jamaican roots, or step in line with America’s vision of race. But it was a structured choice provided under economic duress and within the context of a uniquely American racial order. The problem is, both paths of ethnic identity formation have problematic results for blacks as a whole. By distancing themselves from the “black underclass,” many West Indians reaffirm long-standing stereotypes of blacks as lazy, violent, and generally inferior. In this model, immigrants achieve individual mobility at the expense of group advancement. In other words, individual immigrants can use this boundary work to catapult themselves toward success, but it negates the possibility for the advancement of blacks as a group. West Indians face American stereotypes and norms of black insolence, and their rejection—and even acceptance—of this identity solidifies white preconceptions. This puts West Indian immigrants in a uniquely difficult position—a Catch-22 in which either path of identity formation reinforces a firm black-white color line.

Biggie’s life story dovetails nicely with Waters’ analysis, complicating traditional studies of race, immigration, and assimilation in the United States. Of course, Biggie’s life obviously doesn’t reflect the experiences of all second generation West Indian immigrants. Still, Waters’ analysis in Black Identities does help explain, in part, why “G-E-D, wasn’t B-I-G.”

You Can Take the Rapper Out of the Ghetto, But…

A few weeks back, hip hop blogger Jay Smooth offered a fascinating analysis of rapper Charles Hamilton on Illdoctrine.com. Hamilton is a newly famous, up-and-coming rapper—so respected, in fact, that XXL profiled him as one of their top ten rappers to watch out for in ‘09. He doesn’t even have a record out yet, but he’s been able to generate quite a bit of buzz from his exploitation of free Internet promotion.

Yet, Hamilton has found himself in a bit of a media backlash as of late. First, he lied about stealing another producer’s beat—a big no-no in the music business. He lost a few rap battles (badly) to some no-name fans, and was clowned pretty hard for it across the Internets. But nothing hurt his reputation worse than a video showing Mary J. Blige’s stepdaughter punch him in the face after he made a few insensitive remarks about her promiscuity. If things couldn’t get worse, Hamilton recently claimed that J.Dilla would be the executive producer of his forthcoming album (Dilla is dead), and embarrassed himself further after countless journalists and bloggers exposed his lie. Recent rumors suggest that his record label, Interscope, has released him from his contract as a result of these damaging blunders.

Jay’s take on the Hamilton’s repeated missteps is smart, astute, and grounded in his own personal experiences. See, Jay used to work with kids a lot like Hamilton—kids with tough exteriors, disadvantaged backgrounds, and limited views of the wider world. These kids would seek out negative attention, in large part a response to the negative attention they received growing up—be it from parents, teachers, or law enforcement. In short, these kids’ worldviews were shaped by the structure of their neighborhoods and family life.

Later that week, Jay applied this same analysis to the rapper C-Murder. A security surveillance tape recently surfaced showing C-Murder (ironically? predictably?) attempting to murder a room full of employees at a Baton Rouge, LA club. On his Saturday night radio show, Jay lamented the frustration he felt watching rappers devolve to petty street thugs, even after they had achieved widespread stardom. But, he understood where those behaviors came from: cultures of distrust that emerge from profound poverty and isolation.

Jay’s comments on Charles Hamilton and C-Murder point to a hot topic in the social sciences: the interplay between structural and cultural forces in shaping behavioral and material outcomes. Social scientists have long debated which social factors best explain income, incarceration, and health inequalities, and the debate has largely boiled down to two distinctive camps: those that rely on structural explanations—referring to an individual’s social position in institutions such as the economy, polity, and education—and those that prefer cultural explanations—referring to the effects of shared worldviews, outlooks, and behaviors among individuals that occupy the same neighborhoods or social networks. In other words, “structural” explanations relate inequality to an individual’s position in the economy, education system, or electorate, whereas “cultural” explanations relate inequality to the behaviors and worldviews an individual shares with his or her family, friends, and neighbors.

As Jay argues, Hamilton and C-Murder may come from cultures of distrust and dishonesty, but that’s in large part a symptom of the structural conditions of inner-city poverty. A group’s culture is tempered by their employment opportunities and access to mainstream models of success. And when everyone around you is also socially isolated from employment and other opportunities, a mutually reinforcing system of distrust persists, prompting folks to adopt certain behaviors frowned upon by so-called “mainstream” society. Moreover, in the absence of formal mechanisms of social control—you know, like police—residents are forced to develop alternative methods of social organization. Often, respect is gained through violence, as sociologist Elijah Anderson has argued with his concept “code of the street.” In short, cultural adaptations emerge from the conditions of poverty and racial segregation.

Yet, culture can also have a mind of its own, so to speak. Even when certain structural conditions are lifted—like when C-Murder finds himself out of the ghetto and with some cash in his pocket—his learned worldviews may remain. Sociologist William Julius Wilson addresses this idea with great clarity in his new book More than Just Race. Here, he discusses where “codes of the street” come from, and how they persist:

Even though these codes emerge under conditions of poverty and racial segregation, once developed they display a degree of autonomy in the regulation of behavior. The behavior generated by these autonomous cultural forces often reinforces the very conditions that have emerged from structural inequities.

In many respects, Hamilton’s antics are an adaptation, or response to the conditions of his childhood. But his behavior is also an autonomous force that limits his future opportunities. The same goes for C-Murder. His decision to shoot up a room full of people comes from a lifetime of experiences that taught him to equate violence with highly coveted respect in the streets. But such actions have shifted both Hamilton and C-Murder’s structural positions: Hamilton got dropped from his record label, and C-Murder is looking at serious jail time.

The cases of Charles Hamilton and C-Murder are illustrative of the long-lasting effects of structural inequities—the durable, longitudinal, and cumulative nature of inequality. The ramifications of under-funded schools, inadequate social services, decrepit housing and pervasive violence lasts generations. Accumulated disadvantage, as a result, may affect individual-level behavior long after structural barriers are lifted. But that doesn’t suggest we should blame individuals for “dysfunctional” culture; it simply means that inequality is nested in the structural arrangements of stratified American institutions.

Most Americans might be quick to blame black, “ghetto” culture for Hamilton’s missteps and C-Murder’s violent behavior. You can take the rapper out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the rapper. It’s an easy answer, but an overly simple one. In reality, there’s a complex and complicated interaction between structural and cultural forces in shaping individual-level behaviors, worldviews, and life chances. The effects of poverty and inequality don’t just disappear when a rapper gets his first paycheck, nor do they dissolve once he buys a new house in a new neighborhood. Taking the rapper out of the ghetto leaves the physical ghetto intact. And it is this structural reality—not the resulting cultural responses—that represents the root of the problem.

B.o.B. is Your Favorite Feminist's Favorite Rapper

B.o.B. can best be described as “Andre 3000 Lite.” He’s got Dre’s swagger minus the eccentric style, the flow minus the lyrical proficiency. And that’s not so much a dig at B.o.B. as it is a testament to Andre 3K’s prolific lyrical genius; B.o.B. has real musical talent, no doubt about it. His sound straddles the line between vapid hipster rapper and introspective conscious rapper, with a little bit of southern twang and carefree drug references thrown in for flavor. He was most notably featured in XXL’s “Freshman Ten” issue, a list of the hottest, buzz-worthy rappers to watch out for in 2009.

Yet B.o.B. is a cut above the rest, particularly in regard to his fascinating engagement with issues of feminism. I know, I was a bit shocked when I first heard it too. What’s especially unique here is that B.o.B. embraces themes of feminism, rather than adopting the full “feminist rapper” label. It’s refreshing to listen to a thoughtful guy rap about issues that matter to him—be they feminism, the unforgiving hip hop blogs, or, sometimes, getting high—without the excessive grandstanding usually associated with so-called “conscious” hip hop.

In his new mixtape, B.o.B. vs. Bobby Ray, B.o.B. delivers one of the more poignant depictions of female exploitation on his aptly titled track “Camera.” Verse one profiles an aspiring model that sleeps with photographers and producers in the hopes of making it big in the entertainment industry. She’s used and abused, objectified and exploited, promised stardom but ultimately dropped like a bad habit. Verse two turns to a small-town girl that moves to Atlanta to become a dual threat actress/singer. She tries her best to keep up with the speed of the city, hoping one day to bask in fame’s limelight. Using music videos as her breakthrough medium, she falls victim to the darkest sexual exploitation of the music industry:

She from a town far away,
Then she moved to the A to go to Georgia State
Then she got turned out, yeah she dropped out
Now she’s an actress that wants to sing,
But aint nothing pretty,
She’s just tryin to mimick the life in the city,
Trying to keep up with the limelight-livin
Just wishin, for one audition, the video position
But that aint how she used to be,
At 2 or 3, now she’s a hoochie freak,
So, that aint what the viewers see, just another cutie with a booty, booty.

Kinda makes you view hip hop videos in a different light, no?

Verse three discusses a high school dropout with a young child, struggling to support her family. Much like her own father, her son’s Dad is (all too predictably) absent. After working at Wendy’s for two years, she turns to stripping to make quick cash: “Twerking that bunn-ay/ Just to make her some daycare mon-ay/ And to pay for the rent bill month-lay.” Fifteen years later, she’s past her prime and unable to find work in the entertainment industry. Literally stripped of her innocence, she’s ashamed to look her son in the eyes.

The chorus, taken out of context, could have been lifted from any misogynistic rap song on the radio today: “Watch, her take of her bra/ Posing like star/ Smiling for the camera, camera/ Aw, she’s a movie star/ With that runway walk/ Just smiling for that camera, camera.” But in the context of the three young women B.o.B. vividly portrays, the hook paints a depressing picture of exploitation and despair. It’s a tragic picture, to be sure, but one that captures female martyrdom beautifully and respectfully.

These feminist undertones are not uncommon in B.o.B.’s music. In another mixtape, Hi! My Name is B.o.B., the rapper puts a Lifetime movie to song—and I don’t necessarily mean that in a bad way. In “Room 34,” B.o.B. offers a compelling story about a young high school girl, wooed by an older classmate. The young man charms her with his smile, offering her a ride home from school. His flirting makes her feel special, obscuring his nefarious intentions. What happens next is heartbreaking: He invites himself into her home, only to overpower her and repeatedly rape her. Beaten and battered, she blames herself for the vicious attack. With the grief too difficult to bear, she ultimately commits suicide by jumping from her bedroom window.

These tracks are certainly explicit, but not in a gratuitously sexual sense. Rather, the words B.o.B. puts to song are explicitly emotional. They convey a feeling of empathy for women that, surprisingly, doesn’t feel contrived or suffocating. To delve into the raw exploitation and degradation associated with being a woman in the entertainment industry—or simply being a woman, period—is nothing short of remarkable. And it’s all the more impressive when it comes from the mouth of one of hip-hop’s most talented up-and-coming rappers. Every now and then your favorite rapper probably cuts a lone “conscious” track buried in a sea of nonsense. It might be a song about his mother, or an ode to a past love. But, more often than not, it’s a distraction from the artist’s overall message rather than a central theme. With B.o.B., feminism appears to be a dominant topic, carefully discussed and artfully analyzed.

B.o.B. may never reach widespread stardom. He may never be your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. But, with these strong themes, he just might be your favorite feminist’s favorite rapper.

Kansas City Club Owner Hates Rap Music (And Black People)

Hip hop legend DJ Jazzy Jeff was slated to perform last Saturday night at Kansas City’s KC Live, a club in the city’s Power & Light District. For those that live under a pop culture rock, DJ Jazzy Jeff won the first rap Grammy with Will Smith in 1988 and later co-starred with him on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The legendary DJ’s show in Kansas City was free to the public, sponsored in part by VH1’s Save The Music Foundation.

On Saturday night, everything seemed to be going well until Jeff started spinning hip hop music. I know what you’re thinking: Who would expect a legendary hip hop DJ to play hip hop at a paid club performance? Trust me, I was shocked too. Well, the club owners weren’t having it, and the bouncers Uncle Philip Banks-ed him out of their club. Cruel, cruel irony.

The back story proves much more serious—and much more problematic. Apparently, the owner of KC Live has been on some sort of a crusade against gangs, baggy pants, and rap music. And, by extension, black people.

David Cordish, chairman of The Cordish, Co., owns KC Live and controls much of the Power & Light District. In October of 2008, Cordish demanded greater police presence against “gangs” in the Power & Light District. He accused the police of being “soft” on gang violence, and demanded they enforce a zero tolerance policy. But how many robberies, muggings, or assaults in the Power & Light District occurred at the hands of gangs? More importantly, how many robberies, muggings, or assaults occurred at all? No one knows, including Cordish. And that’s the problem—what makes Cordish suspect gang violence? Could he be referring to Kansas City’s young black population, many of whom frequent the Power & Light District? See, in contemporary American vernacular, “gang” is a loaded—and racialized—term. Where others see African-American partygoers, Cordish sees potential gang members.

A racially charged pattern emerges when we take a close look at KC Live’s oddly and suspiciously specific dress code. Look, I’ve heard of dress codes at clubs before, most along the lines of “No tennis shoes” or “No hats.” I guess that’s fine—you know, maybe the club wants to appear upscale or classy. But Cordish and KC Live ban “Shorts below the calves,” “White t’s” and…wait for it…“Towels.” Yes, towels. Sandals, a blue t-shirt and jeans? No problem. Timberland boots, a white t-shirt and a towel? Find another club.

There are a few things going on here. First, Cordish is taking the “No shirt, no shoes, no service” policy to the racial extreme. It’s as if he surveyed Kansas City’s large black population, made a list of their major fashion trends, and then slapped the list on the front door of his club under a “Not Allowed” banner. Second, the club is marketed as a “Top 40” establishment, yet prohibits hip hop. Check out any Top 40 list from the past 15 years—hip hop is well represented. This contradiction in music policy is a not-so-subtle, yet still implicit message that blacks (and their cultural forms) are not welcome at KC Live. Indeed, that was the exact reason DJ Jazzy Jeff was booted from the stage: He played Biz Markie’s famous hip hop ballad “Just a Friend.” Yes, the same Biz Markie song you can hear playing in Heineken’s most recent national TV ad spot.

Critics of The Cordish, Co. have called the club’s policies racist—and they’re right. Power & Light District? Try Power & White District, as many folks have started referring to the area. It’s obvious which racial group the company is targeting, and it has apparently exacerbated pre-existing racial tensions throughout the city.

Banning baggy jeans, like banning hip hop, is a clever way to enact racist policy under the guise of “race-neutral” codes and guidelines. It’s the contemporary, “color blind” variant of Jim Crow-era legislation of black bodies. Hip hop music doesn’t incite violence, and black t-shirts are no more acceptable than white ones. The message from Cordish is loud and clear: No black music, no black fashion trends, no black cultural forms. No blacks allowed.

Drug Decriminalization and Racial Inequality in Pop Culture

Mass incarceration, particularly of black and brown folks, is a hot topic in the social sciences. Hell, it’s a hot topic in nearly every poor, marginalized, urban community of color. Harvard sociologist Bruce Western offers some of the best academic analysis of the carceral state in Punishment and Inequality in America. Western brilliantly details the absurd cost of our contemporary prison system as well as the significant toll incarceration has had on poor communities of color. True unemployment rates are hidden in the “non-economic institution” of the prison, as labor statistics ignore the very existence of prisoners. So, while black male unemployment reached an astounding 17.2% in April of this year, the true percent of unemployed black males is much higher, thanks in part to racial discrimination in the criminal justice system. It’s common knowledge at this point that blacks are more likely to be charged, more likely to be convicted, and more likely to receive longer sentences than whites.

Leaving prison produces even more hardship. After incarceration, men become “permanent labor market outsiders,” as their job prospects are reduced to unstable (if any) employment. Not surprisingly, these outcomes are racialized. Princeton sociologist Devah Pager conducted a fascinating study (“The Mark of a Criminal Record”) in which she sent black and white job candidates with nearly identical resumes to apply for low-level jobs. The results illustrated profound racial discrimination, as black candidates with criminal records were far less likely to receive callbacks for jobs than whites with criminal records. But that wasn’t all; in fact, black candidates without a criminal record were still less likely to receive a callback than whites with a criminal record. Her results suggest that there may be some sort of racial stigma attached to criminal behavior—a racial stereotype that all blacks are perceived as potential criminal offenders.

To combat these inequalities that are decimating urban communities and fragmenting families of color, Bruce Western offers two policy suggestions: decriminalize marijuana and eliminate parole violations for failing drugs tests. His suggestion to decriminalize drug offenses certainly comes at an apt moment in our local history. Given the current political climate in the state of Massachusetts—fresh off a 65% vote in favor of the decriminalization of marijuana—and The Wall Street Journal's recent report that Obama's new drug czar wants to "end the 'War on Drugs,'" Western’s policy suggestion may prove feasible in the coming years. Hell, even the right wingers are on board. Conservative blogger Ed Morrissey recently offered a glowing review on his website Hotair.com of High: The True Tale of American Marijuana, a new DVD advocating the legalization of marijuana. Judging from the blog post’s comments, advocates for decriminalization may find allies among the nation’s right wing base. Growing Libertarian leanings within the Republican Party only add credence to this shift.

So far, so good, right?

Of course, right wing support (especially of the Libertarian variety) only comes when such issues are framed as an attack on big government. If these policies are framed with racialized images, however, support may wane. Seemingly race-neutral political issues, such as welfare and criminal rehabilitation, carry highly racialized images in the collective imagination: With Ronald Reagan welfare became synonymous with black welfare queens; with George H. Bush criminal policy became synonymous with the black rapist Willie Horton.

I worry that drug laws would be no different. Consider popular culture. Movies, music and television sitcoms that depict overt drug use among white youths generally fit into categories of suburban dysfunction, 1960s-era nostalgia, or cautionary tales of “good kids gone bad.” Popular movies such as Traffic and Thirteen fit the suburban dysfunction category. In each, suburban youths from affluent families are lured into experimentation with drugs and are ultimately corrupted by streetwise black males. There’s an implicit assumption that these are “good” kids at heart, and drugs (pushed on them by black males) simply cause them to lose their way. The FOX television show That 70s Show, as well as the film Dazed and Confused, are examples of sanitized, white-washed images of 1960s era drug use. Here, the ‘60s represents fun, carefree, and safe dope smoking among white teens. The pattern is clear: In pop culture, images of whites engaged in drug use depict either wayward teens struggling for identity, or innocent youths safely experimenting in the privacy of their own homes.

By sharp contrast, popular images of black drug use are normally associated with drug selling or public drug use. Examples include the movie Friday, HBO’s The Wire, and far too many contemporary rap music videos. In this genre, black drug use is accompanied by violence, depravity, and predatory behavior. Take Friday. Sure, it’s a lighthearted comedy; but violence is central to the movie’s plot once Smokey breaks Crack Commandment Number 4 and gets high off his own supply. Moreover, when Smokey gets Craig high for the first time, they don’t retreat to the basement of their parents’ house, or even the backyard. Nope, they post up right on the front stoop, out in the open. And for all of the good things about The Wire, it still only portrays two types of black characters engaging with drugs: the dealer or the junkie. The dominant image of black drug use, in The Wire and elsewhere in pop culture, is almost invariably associated with violence or crime.

Here’s the kicker: While white drug use in pop culture is largely confined to the private sphere, images of black drug use are disproportionately relegated to the public sphere. Drug selling is blatant and prominent in The Wire, but private and controlled in That 70s Show. Private drug use is safe, sanitized and white; public drug use is scary, violent, and black. Think about how rare the converse is: Pop culture rarely depicts black youths as innocent experimenters, while white youths are rarely shown as predatory enablers or corruptors. It is this public/private divide where the work of racial inequality manifests. It’s not just race, but how race interacts with our conceptions of drugs, violence, control, and public space. This racialized popular conception of drug use pervades the collective consciousness and may undermine sweeping social policy.

Some conservatives and libertarians may favor decriminalization to further weaken the power of government—but, if pressed, might revert to age-old stereotypes and racist propaganda. All it might take is one commercial depicting (black) drug dealers out on the corner, corrupting innocent (white) kids. Get some financial backing from right-wing policy groups and lobbyists, and another progressive policy may fall victim to our nation’s pervasive, and damaging racial stereotypes.

If Western’s policy proposals reach the national agenda—and I think they should—a nationwide reconceptualization of the popular imagination is in order. In other words, stereotypes of drug use promulgated in pop culture must be confronted and realigned. A re-framing of national drug policy—and criminal policy more generally—is necessary. Progressive drug policy is vulnerable and susceptible to new Willie Horton-style images, and future policymakers will need to navigate this delicate terrain in search of greater racial equality.

Book Review: The Hip Hop Wars

Tricia Rose, professor of Africana Studies at Brown University, begins The Hip Hop Wars with a provocative declaration: “Hip hop is not dead, but it is gravely ill.” In her book, Dr. Rose offers a diagnosis of hip hop’s sickness, followed by a prognosis to regain hip hop’s health. Firmly situated within existing hip hop scholarship, The Hip Hop Wars is marketed as a take-no-prisoners, no-holds-barred indictment of the current debates surrounding hip hop.

The reality of the book is slightly less exhilarating. Following the lead of other noteworthy academics and journalists—including Michael Eric Dyson, Nelson George, Bakari Kitwana, Craig Watkins, and Jeff Chang (just to name a few)—Rose meticulously dissects popular criticisms and defenses of hip hop. The bulk of the book tackles ten common arguments on both sides of the hip hop debate, exposing their logical inconsistencies. First, Rose debunks five myths created by hip hop’s critics, ranging from “Hip hop causes violence” to “Hip hop destroys American values.” Each of these criticisms is succinctly countered with Rose’s analytical clarity and elegant prose. Rose then moves to hip hop’s defenders, challenging five frequently recited defenses of the genre. Again, Rose effectively shows us—hip hop fans and consumers—the negative effects of our blanket defense of hip hop culture. Sure, rappers are “keeping it real,” but how much “reality” is actually portrayed in their music? And whose reality are they rapping about? This aspect of the book was particularly brilliant, as Rose shows us how our defenses inadvertently perpetuate negative stereotypes of black people.

Parts of her book are incredible, such as her compelling discussion of criticisms against hip hop used as proxies for racist vilifications of blacks as a racial group. Reading the book, I nodded my head in approval. So far, so good. Yet as I read the final section of The Hip Hop Wars, outlining the future of progressive hip hop, I was left unsatisfied, perplexed, and frustrated. Rose notes the importance of “cross-cultural exchanges,” but non-blacks are interestingly (and noticeably) absent in her discussion of progressive voices and organizations. Rose’s silence on these issues of race (read: whiteness) illuminates a larger, highly problematic aspect of The Hip Hop Wars: Rose is painfully inarticulate in her discussion of white engagement with hip hop, accepting the simplistic notion of “racial tourism” at face value.

This inadequate discussion of whiteness, racial privilege, cultural appropriation and hip hop points to two glaring inconsistencies and contradictions in The Hip Hop Wars. First, Rose calls whites “invisible” in the public discussions of hip hop while she simultaneously wipes them out of her progressive agenda for the culture’s future. She arrogantly claims to expose the “invisible white consumption of hip hop,” as if whiteness and white consumption has been a secret that we, as a culture, completely ignore.

This couldn’t be further from reality. I remember lifting weights after football practice with some of my black teammates in high school, discussing hip hop. I started to engage with a debate (probably one of those “Who’s better, Jay-Z or Nas?” discussions), only to be scoffed at and told “You don’t know shit about hip hop.” My own teammates said I was “too white” to effectively articulate anything about hip hop music or culture. I then remember going to college in Ann Arbor with my Rocawear jeans and Timberland boots (the standard wardrobe in my hometown of Binghamton), only to be laughed at for being “too black.”

Here’s the thing: When whites engage with hip hop culture, race is always salient. Candid discussions among whites—hip hop listeners and non-fans alike—are omnipresent. Every non-black fan of this culture is forced, at some point or another, to answer the question, “What do you think you are, black?” To suggest otherwise, that the role of whites in hip hop consumption is somehow “underplayed,” illustrates extreme ignorance to the complicated contours of race, cultural consumption, and hip hop. Whiteness is constantly negotiated within hip hop, and racial humility among hip hop consumers is far more prevalent than Rose lets on.

In addition to this awkward discussion of whiteness, there’s considerable slippage in the underlying argument of the book: the idea that white desires “drive” the market for stereotypical images of blacks. At three different points in the book, she makes three very different statements about the proliferation of commercial hip hop. At one point, she blames white consumers:

White interest and consumption drive the mainstream commercial success of black thugs, gangstas, hustlers, pimps, and hoes (p. 233).

At another point, she adds the role of media conglomerates:

Many who claim that hip hop hurts black people conveniently leave out…the extensive role of corporate power and white desire as key ingredients in creating the centrality of self-destructive ideas and images in commercial hip hop (p. 85).

At yet another point in the book, she emphasizes the role of the media, independent of white desires:

We must pull back the veil on corporate media’s manipulation of black male and female artists and the impact this has on fans and the direction of black cultural expression (p. 155).

So which argument of causality is it? Is it white consumers, internalizing racist lust for images of black death, or is it media manipulation impacting the tastes of hip hop fans? The actual answer is probably a combination of both; a mutually reinforcing process in which media conglomerates create a market for stereotypical images that trigger preexisting racial stereotypes. Blacks and other racial minorities—many of whom are (gasp) also consumers of hip hop—are additional actors in this process, both in shaping and conforming to images in the market. But Rose never makes this type of sophisticated argument, and instead assumes that her readers will blindly accept her unproven arguments about the primacy of racist white consumers. As critical hip hop scholars, I think we can do better.

I read this whole section, thinking, Where the hell do I fit in? I’m an educated, progressive, outspoken critic of white privilege. I wondered what Rose would say, how she would place me in this discussion of “ghetto tourism” and white racial privilege. It’s as if Rose is saying, “I know you’re not racist, Jeremy. It’s just the majority of hip hop consumers and media conglomerates that are. When I talk about the racist lust inherent in the white consumption of hip hop, of course I don’t mean all whites.” Coincidentally, I’ve heard this line of reasoning used in other settings. You know, like the argument “I know you’re not a bitch or a ho. So when MCs rap about bitches and hoes, of course they don’t mean you.” Byron Hurt effectively shows in his documentary Beyond Beats & Rhymes that, indeed, rappers are talking about female listeners when they rap about bitches and hoes. Similarly, Rose is talking about me when she waxes philosophical about white cultural consumption patterns. And I don’t exactly think it’s fair, or grounded in any convincing evidence.

Simplistic comments made in passing about white consumption are void of critical analysis—implying that the reader should just know this “universal truth.” Spare me. Her evidence is at best anecdotal, and at worst a ridiculous assumption pulled out of thin air. The standard of proof here is considerably weak.

Moreover, a critically engaged love of hip-hop means a critical engagement with hip hop consumers, regardless of race. In fact, it means a critical engagement with hip hop consumers because of racial differences in consumption. Our goal should be to educate, not alienate. I believe that hip hop can be used as a powerful vehicle for social change, but excluding non-blacks from the discussion doesn’t take us in the right direction.

Parts of Rose’s analysis are spot on, and brilliant. Other parts are simply more drivel masquerading as systematic analysis under the cloud of her prestigious title. It reminds me of the tremendous gaps in hip-hop scholarship, particularly in regards to critical race analysis. Rose tackles the issues that BET’s Hip Hop vs. America special inadequately addressed, as well as those pressing concerns that the special failed to address altogether. She very forcefully continues the conversation, and pushes us as readers to continue thinking. But, it’s as if debates over hip hop began and ended with the BET special. We’ve added intricacies and nuance to these debates; hip hop scholarship should catch up.

At the end of Rose’s public lectures on The Hip Hop Wars, she states, “So the question we have now is this: What kind of community do we want to make in hip hop?” What kind of community, indeed. The Hip Hop Wars skillfully dissects contemporary debates in hip hop, but fails to produce a realistic progressive agenda. We need more rigor from serious, scholarly analyses of hip hop. The Hip Hop Wars is certainly a good addition, but we still have a long way to go.

Anatomy of a Wale Concert

A few weeks ago, I expressed optimism about hipster rap’s potential to be our generation’s black/white coalition. Last Friday night I decided to do a little empirical test of my theory by checking out a hip-hop show here in Boston and reporting back on the racial dynamics I observed.

I’ve been a big fan of Wale for a few years now. Heavily influenced by Washington DC’s go-go scene, Wale is like a breath of fresh air in the hip-hop game. He reps DC to the fullest, but is upfront about his recent move to suburban Prince George’s county. Wale’s rhymes are care free and lighthearted, and his style is clean and fresh. While MIMS raps banal lines like “This is why I’m hot,” Wale takes the same concept and makes it simultaneously artful and hilarious: “My climate is way higher than Lindsay Lohan’s nostrils on powder.” Sick. In other words, he’s a good example of the new generation of hipster rappers gaining widespread success and notoriety.

The venue for the show was near Boston University’s campus, and since it’s around finals time, I wasn’t sure what the crowd would be like. I got there around 8:30 and posted up at the bar, surveying the scene. It was definitely eclectic, to say the least. Near the front of the stage was a group of about seven black hipsters that I later found out had some connection to the opening act. A few underage white college kids wearing shorts, American Eagle polo shirts, and New Era fitted hats mingled around the bar area watching the Celtics game. What was most striking, however, were the multi-racial groups of friends that continued to sprinkle in the front doors as we got closer to show time.

At around 9:30 the venue started to fill up, so I moved from the bar to find a spot near the front of the stage. A white DJ was dropping some serious jams (Kool & The Gang’s “Get Down On It”??), and I was in heaven, nodding my head to the infectious beats. I was standing next to two black guys, and one turned to me and said, “I feel like I should be at a BBQ with these jams. Just flippin’ burgers. In, like, 1978.” I responded, “I was thinking more like ’82, but yeah, same idea.” Our conversation continued, discussing rap music and predicting when Wale would show up.

A few minutes later, a group of four drunk, underage white girls from Wellesley started to push their way to the front of the stage, making a bit of a scene in the process. My new friends and I had a laugh at their expense. Naturally, said white girls approached me to strike up a conversation. I felt like a strange racial middleman - - in my BAPE t-shirt and fitted hat from The Hundreds, I was like a bridge between my new black friends in slightly similar attire and the white girls from Wellesley. I know it might sound like I’m overstating my racial middle-ness here, but seriously, by the end of the night I was basically acting like a wingman.

I wondered, what if I was just a random white kid from Wellesley that loved hip-hop, and decided to check out this concert? What if I grew up in a racially homogonous community, went to a racially homogonous college, and had a racially homogonous friendship network? This concert would have been my only opportunity to engage and interact with folks of another race. And, most importantly, that interaction was actually happening.

As for the concert itself, well…it was underwhelming. The opening acts (including Detroit native and Kanye signee Big Sean) were for the most part pretty wack. The one shining spot of the whole show came not from Wale, but from a local kid named DStacks. At around 10:30, three of the goofiest white kids I have ever seen emerged from backstage and started setting up some instruments. After they warmed up, a 19 year-old rapper from Brighton—Damilleo Stacks—came out with his hype-man and pretty much rocked the house. You can check out his Myspace here, but it doesn’t do his performance justice. The kid was funny and charismatic. His hype-man was understated and played a solid supporting role. Best of all, he was rapping with a live band. A good live band. The dynamics of race relations at the concert, on stage and in the audience, were layered with multi-racial undertones. It was an interesting experience.

At the end of the show, I came to a number of preliminary conclusions about race relations, hip-hop music, and the Boston hip-hop scene. First, I consider this more evidence that hipster rap may be a powerful and important development for hip-hop. My personal experiences and observations suggest that this particular type of music really does bring folks together, in a meaningful (albeit brief/fleeting) way. If—and I emphasize if—hipster rap does become more and more mainstream, this development may have a positive effect on white kids’ perceptions and interactions with black culture.

Second, it was encouraging to see mainstream white college kids in the audience. I’ve seen a few “conscious” rappers perform in Ann Arbor (Mr Lif, Little Brother), and the audiences were by and large filled with white fans of underground music. The kids at the Wale show, by contrast, were the same kids that helped Lil Wayne go platinum. Probably the same kids that were singing “They tryin’ to catch me ridin’ dirty” a couple summers ago. Yet here they were, bobbing their heads in a multi-racial crowd to music void of any lyrics about guns, murder, or hyper-masculinity. As I thought about the future of violent images in hip-hop, this scene looked like a promising development.

Finally, I should note that all of my observations might have been contingent on the venue. Had this concert been promoted by a different marketing company, been in a different part of the city, or been in another city altogether, the “anatomy” of race relations might have looked entirely different. Either way, this experience points to a hopeful future.

Tupac: Resurrection > Notorious

But, Biggie > Tupac.

I finally got around to checking out the (aptly titled) Notorious B.I.G. biopic Notorious on my way back from Cleveland this weekend. Having read all the independent reviews, all the chatter from the blogosphere, and all the media hype, I can’t say I was expecting much. And, well, my low expectations were met.

I’ll spare you a review since the movie’s been out for a while, but my main beef was the film’s depiction of Biggie himself. It plays out like a 2-hour justification for Biggie’s decision to sell crack, abandon his kids, and abuse women. Spare me. I was so busy watching Biggie feel remorseful and repentant throughout the entire film that I forgot he was actually one of the greatest MCs of all time. Ok, I didn’t actually forget. But the film spent more time depicting the Lil’ Kim and Faith Evans courtships than Biggie’s actual career. In their quest to depict Biggie as a lovable “crack dealer gone good,” the filmmakers simply fail to highlight his unique talent.

We’d be naïve to think that Resurrection wasn’t a little, uh, overly sympathetic to Tupac and his various run-ins with the law. But Notorious is painfully biased. The kind of bias that makes you cringe a little. Or turn away. Or, in my case, fast forward through all the dialogue and just nod your head when Biggie’s music plays in the background.

After watching the film, I wondered two things: 1) If Resurrection were made with professional actors, instead of clips from Tupac interviews, would it have been as corny as Notorious?; and 2) How much better would Notorious have been if it were made in the pseudo-documentary style of Resurrection?

Can you imagine a Biggie biopic narrated with his own words? Or his own lyrics? We’d get exposed to every side of the lyrical genius: the good and the bad, the positive and the critical, the introspective and the self-indulgent. It would be a film that captured all of the nuance that defined his life. People live contradictory lives; sometimes they do things that make us feel sympathetic, other times they do things that demand scorn. A good film evokes real emotion—often, mixed emotions—and real criticism. Now that’s a film I’d shell out $10 for.

Some Call it Blight, Others Call it Art

The “four elements” of hip-hop include DJing, MCing, breaking, and graffiti writing. While Afrika Bambaataa claims a fifth element (a vaguely defined “knowledge and culture”), it is the four main elements that symbolize hip-hop’s history as a cultural form.

The last of these elements—graffiti writing—has certainly been the most politically charged. Politicians, police, and community activists alike continuously deride graffiti as neighborhood “blight.” They have a point: tagging destroys public property and is often linked to gang-related activity and violence. Targeted arrests for graffiti writing are part in parcel with the war on drugs, as both policies seek to eradicate loosely-defined (and often racially specific) “blight” from our urban streets.

Graffiti artists have a dramatically different take on their work. They see themselves as part of a cultural movement celebrating a dying art form. On the one hand, I agree with community activists that desire “clean streets.” Their efforts are admirable and well-meaning. However, I tend to side with the graf artists on this issue, albeit to a limited extent. While I can’t agree with tagging a public school, the art of subway graffiti is remarkably vibrant and rich. The aesthetic appeal and artistic style of subway graffiti, particularly in New York City, is undeniable.

Martha Cooper and Henry Chaifant’s Subway Art beautifully documented the burgeoning graffiti movement that took over New York City in the 1970s and ‘80s. Their seminal book of photographs and commentary spawned a generation of interest in graffiti and its relationship to hip-hop. To this day, hip-hop heads still reference this book.

The above video is the promo for their 25th Anniversary reissue set to drop soon. Graffiti has largely lost prominence in the new era of corporate hip-hop, much to our aesthetic detriment. While the tradition of breaking lives on in contemporary hip-hop dance crazes, the significance of graffiti art has noticeably waned. The rerelease of Subway Art may spark new interest in graffiti writing, but it may also bring up old debates about art, lawfulness, and public interest. Either way, it’s healthy to keep the conversation going.

Asher Roth is the Anti-"White Guilt"

Remember when white rappers needed black legitimacy to be cool? Well those days are over, thanks to a young rapper from Pennsylvania named Asher Roth. For those that live under a rock of sorts, Roth is the (next) great white hope for white kids that love hip-hop. Or, more accurately, he’s the (next) great white hope for media giants and merchandisers looking to cash in on the newest form of white pride.

You can argue this phenomenon has already happened before, say, circa 1998. A brazen young Marshall Mathers took no prisoners as he radically changed the way we produce and consume hip-hop. Eminem’s trailer trash shtick was gloriously wed with a lyrical gift, producing an in-your-face, white-ethnic-braggadocio-but-with-black-friends type of style. The dude’s angst and lyrical mastery transcended the traditional categories of hip-hop music. But, importantly, we respected him as a hip-hop artist because black folks (Dr. Dre, Proof) vouched for him. It’s not a coincidence that Dre made a cameo in his first single off The Slim Shady LP.

Part of this was a marketing ploy—he had the black guy seal of approval, and therefore we could accept him as legitimate hip-hop. But a large part was also based on respect for a culture founded, promulgated, and dominated by black folks. When he murdered (lyrically) Jay-Z on “Renegades,” it was not a triumph of white over black, but rather a carefully managed balancing act between coming to grips with his whiteness and accepting his drive to be the best emcee in the game. What I mean is that Em wasn’t going to hold back and patronize black emcees, but he was also deftly aware of his whiteness. Later, Em played a key role in the commercial rise of 50 Cent, for a while dominating the airwaves with the Dre-Em-50 trifecta. He had successfully “darkened” himself, so to speak, and we stopped talking about him as a white emcee, but rather as a great emcee. In other words, in a culture dominated by African-Americans, Eminem showed deference and respect as he balanced his unique racial identity with his equally unique skill as a rapper.

Asher Roth, by striking contrast, wants nothing to do with this contrived legitimacy. On the one hand, you gotta respect the kid’s moxie. His disregard for the black-guy seal of approval seems to suggest that hip-hop has become youth culture, not black culture. And his whiteness should not, by itself, be damaging to his career as an emcee. There is a sophisticated argument about race and the transmission of culture buried somewhere in here. Potentially, hip-hop, unlike rock music, may resist being co-opted by whites and instead fuse into a racially heterogeneous youth culture (with racially homogenous roots, of course). What if hip-hop took this trajectory of racial diversity? Maybe this cultural form would stop being used as a proxy for racism, as critics would no longer be able to blame the music for perpetuating a dysfunctional black culture. I don’t know, maybe I’m just an idealist like that.

Yet, that is not the case. Interestingly and quite arrogantly, Roth is harnessing a shtick of white privilege as he claims the authenticity of the...erm…suburbs. You know, because suburban kids can’t relate to hip-hop in its contemporary form. Why? Well, that’s a little unclear. Roth’s basic claim is that white kids in the suburbs have been consuming hip-hop for years, but have never had some one they can relate to, some one to represent them and their voices. You know, because white folks can’t relate to black folks. And, of course, because only white folks live in the suburbs. Comparing Eminem to Roth, the blog No Trivia wrote it better than I could have: “But Eminem’s use of his whiteness came from a desire to prove himself in spite of the unfortunate reputation of white rappers that came before him, not some strange sense of privilege because he’s the person actually buying rap CDs.”

In the most blatant example of white supremacy in hip-hop, Roth is absolutely obsessed with his whiteness. He doesn’t problematize his whiteness, like when Em forced us to re-think what it means to be white in his deeply personal discussions of growing up poor. No, instead Roth wants us to realize that we should like him because, well, he’s white and privileged just like us! His most recent song leak (which you can download here) details the trials and tribulations of being the next great white rapper and the subsequent comparisons to Eminem. Simultaneously, Roth reminds us that while he is no Eminem (he is from privilege and proud of it), he is unabashedly white (and therefore more relatable than those black rappers we thought we liked). Quoted in a recent New York Times piece, Roth explains the difference: "Culturally, Em was almost a black guy. My background is more stereotypically white." That's just great, Asher. How astute. It’s one thing to be aware of your racial identity; it’s an entirely different thing to embrace a privileged identity as your claim to superiority in a culture dominated by minority artists.

In an article from 2005, Brother Ali poignantly discussed white fans’ relationship to underground white rappers. "One of the hardest things we're dealing with now is the underlying feeling of white supremacy among fans who feel they are a part of hip-hop, but are listening to and prefer mostly white MCs," says Brother Ali. "They believe that Aesop Rock is better than independent artists who are Black and mainstream artists like Ludacris. These MCs are doing a lot with hip-hop artistically that they have learned from Black people, but [their fans] don't want to hear from the old-school originators because they believe it's the white MCs who created the styles they like. This isn't an underground-versus-mainstream thing—it's a racist thing." My emphasis.

Race and hip-hop is a difficult subject to parse out, and I don’t mean to make any sweeping statements here. What I do know, however, is that Roth’s brazen racial supremacy is a unique development in hip-hop. And I hope it ends soon.

Is Hipster Rap Our Generation’s Black/White Coalition?

Nyle "Let The Beat Build" from Nyle on Vimeo.

In Why White Kids Love Hip Hop, Bakari Kitwana discusses a trend in American politics: we are moving away from the “old racial politics"—characterized by stark black-white cultural differences and cultural territorialism—and into the “new racial politics”—recognizing the nuance and fluidity between cultures and races. According to Kitwana, commerce and commercialism are the driving force behind this movement, facilitated in large part by hip-hop’s rise in commercial popularity.

As the title of his book suggests, Kitwana chronicles why white kids (like me?) love hip-hop culture, debunking a few myths of white consumption along the way (for example, the oft-cited, but unfounded statistic: “80% of hip-hop is bought by whites”). However, Kitwana is most forceful in his projection of the future. He argues that hip-hop’s multicultural appeal can be harnessed into a hip-hop voting bloc, and that hip-hop will bring blacks and whites together in more successful coalitions than years past.

Is hipster rap the realization of Kitwana’s projection?

A friend of mine put me on to the video above, shot in one take at NYU by a rapper named Nyles. In it, Nyles teams up with his noticeably multi-racial group of friends to remix Lil Wayne’s “Let the Beat Build” off of Weezy’s 2008 multi-platinum selling album Tha Carter III. As my friend Joey wrote, this video is “probably one of the dopest things I’ve seen in a while. Creativity + hip-hop is inspiring.” I couldn’t agree more.

Hipster rap culture has received considerable praise, and tremendous ridicule by the underground internet-based press. Hipster rappers, such as The Cool Kids, Kidz in the Hall, Kid Cudi, Mickey Factz, and countless others are somewhat of a throwback to A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul; their rhymes are light-hearted and their style is clean, fresh, and trendy. A hipster rapper’s wardrobe—fresh Nikes, keffiyah scarves, and pants slightly tighter than normal—stands in sharp contrast with what is traditionally associated with hip-hop culture—baggy jeans, oversized hoodies, and Timberland boots. Criticism has predictably carried homophobic undertones.

That said, hipster rap is dominating the airwaves, and hipster infused hip-hop culture is dominating streetwear style. Most importantly, this style is universal and marketed to a multi-racial youth public. Just check out the models at Karmaloop.com, or better yet, head down to their store on Newbury Street in Boston. There, you will see an almost utopian blending and conversing of youths of all races. Indeed, the very content and style of hipster rap culture makes all races legitimate consumers. In other words, hipster rap carries an inherent universal message, and both blacks and whites are equal participants.

My point is this: the "street hustler shtick" of commercial rap music (read: T.I., Lil Wayne, Young Jeezy) promotes negative images of black people that are in turn consumed by the majority of white hip-hop listeners. Underground hip-hop (read: Mr. Lif, Little Brother) is uplifting and consumed by whites, but fails to garner mass appeal. It's hard to imagine a "new racial politics" emerging from either segment of the hip-hop world; most commercial hip-hop only perpetuates stereotypes, and underground hip-hop is so marginalized that its impact is negligible. Hipster rap, by contrast, is both commercially successful, light-hearted in content, AND appealing/relatable to all races.

As the above video makes vividly clear, hipster rap seems to bring blacks and whites together in a way that hip-hop has thus far never been able to do. I admit, I was originally a hipster rap skeptic. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe the hipster rap movement is an important development for the future of multi-racial hip-hop politics. A modern day “Rainbow Coalition,” if you will. If hip-hop is the exploitation of black culture by whites, then hipster rap may even out unequal power dynamics. Better yet, if hip-hop is the vehicle for multi-racial youth politics, as Kitwana claims, then hipster rap may have control of the wheel.

Couple the rise of hipster rap culture with the election of Barack Obama, and the “new racial politics” may have officially conquered popular discourse and popular youth culture. The future looks promising.

Sarah Palin, Eminem, and Misogyny in Hip-Hop

Eminem’s new music video for the song, “We Made You” has caused somewhat of a stir in the blogosphere. Most hip-hop focused blogs have blasted Eminem, calling the song a lame, commercially driven gimmick. From a strictly objective hip-hop head perspective, this song is corny, trite, outdated, and painfully superficial for an emcee as talented as Eminem. However, the video has also raised some eyebrows among, shall we say, casual hip-hop listeners. Eminem’s references to former Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin has caused the politics-focused media—from the Huffington Post on the left to Hotair.com on the right—to take notice.

In the above clip from The O’Reilly Factor, hip-hop’s number one fan Bill O’Reilly waxes philosophical about rap music, left-wing politics, and misogyny. And by waxes philosophical I mean misinterprets and grossly misconstrues a rap song I doubt he even attempted to listen to. With guest Tammy Bruce, O’Reilly makes three key points, all of which are largely politically motivated and unsubstantiated by the video in question:

1) Eminem, as an artist, “means nothing” and no one over 25 cares about his music at all.

Nevermind the fact that Em is 36, and one of the most respected emcees of all time. Nevermind the fact that original hip-hop pioneers are damn near in their fifties, and still get involved with every new development in the mainstream (just ask Ice-T). Nevermind the fact that it’s been 10 years since the Slim Shady LP was released, meaning that kids who were in college when Em first hit the scene are now 28 years old. If we accepted O’Reilly’s math skills at face, we’d have to pretty much chuck away any relevant facts about age and hip-hop consumption in 2009.

2) The left-controlled media never voices outrage when a figure from the left maliciously criticizes a conservative leader.

So Eminem is a leader of the left-wing, eh? I’m calling shenanigans; how can you call him a leader of the left when he never even cut an Obama track?!? But in all seriousness, this argument comes off uncomfortably awkward as O’Reilly attempts to connect a tangentially related political agenda to a strikingly a-political rap music video.

3) Kids will see this crude misogyny and learn to disrespect women, especially conservative women that “challenge the status quo.”

The direct causal link here is pretty weak. The cultural influence of individual artists does not occur in a vacuum; there is certainly a greater context of misogyny in our nation of which Eminem’s records are only one small slice. Moreover, I question the egregiousness of the video itself, at least in respect to the Palin scene. Does it treat Palin as a hyper-sexed object of lust? Sure. But has Palin subjected her female body to objectification since the moment she entered the national spotlight, selected as the vice-presidential candidate as an exploitative ploy to attract black-fearing white women voters? YES. Sarah Palin’s popularity and rise to fame was made possible by the objectification of her body by her own party. When Palin’s gender is exploited and objectified by the Right for political gain, O’Reilly and other conservative talking heads are perfectly content. We cannot forget the basis for her body’s objectification, and bringing hip-hop and Eminem into the discussion only presents a red herring that ignores how all of us—irrespective of race, gender, class, political affiliation or any other descriptive characteristic—are ultimately culpable for her body’s objectification in pop culture by accepting the exploitative process that created her celebrity status.

Of course, this does not excuse Eminem’s objectification of women, nor should it leave him immune to criticism. Whereas it’s painfully obvious that O’Reilly and his esteemed guest Tammy Bruce barely listened to snippets of “We Made You,” I took four minutes out of my busy day and viewed the video in its entirety. In doing so, I noticed that Eminem does not simply degrade women as sexual objects; the overarching thesis of this song actually endorses one of the most egregiously false and extraordinarily misinformed arguments about female sexuality.

The central claim of “We Made You” is that all women—particularly and especially lesbian women—are defenseless and helpless when faced with Em’s manhood. They just can’t control themselves. This power-of-the-penis arrogance is most evident as Em physically battles Lindsay Lohan’s now ex-girlfriend, Samantha Ronson, for Lohan’s sexuality. The implicit assumption is that Em can, and eventually will, prevail over the butch, gender-norm-defying lesbians that control the women he wants.

It’s the classic “She won’t be a lesbian after me” lame and pathetically misinformed argument made by penis-obsessed men with little understanding of human sexuality. Look dudes, some women are simply not sexually attracted to the male sex organ, period. Get over it. It doesn’t make you less of a man. And it doesn’t give you the right to belittle them when they just aren’t into dudes sexually. It’s not just Eminem that’s misinformed here—it seems to be a huge misunderstanding in American culture. Take mainstream lesbian pornography, which is neither produced for, nor consumed by actual lesbians. Somehow lesbians, whom by definition are not sexually attracted to men, have become a major object of male lust. Eminem’s video, corny as it is, plays into this awkward and contradictory misconception.

I’m not sure what policy could correct these culturally-based misunderstandings, but I do know that videos like these certainly aren’t helping.