In (Slight) Defense of Chris Matthews

Chris Matthews’ blunder following President Obama’s State of the Union Address is by now common knowledge to political junkies. But for those that missed it, Matthews was so enamored with Obama’s speech that, well, he “forgot [the President] was black for an hour:”

It's interesting: he is post-racial, by all appearances. I forgot he was black tonight for an hour. You know, he's gone a long way to become a leader of this country, and past so much history, in just a year or two. I mean, it's something we don't even think about. I was watching, I said, wait a minute, he's an African American guy in front of a bunch of other white people. And here he is president of the United States and we've completely forgotten that tonight -- completely forgotten it.

For Matthews, Obama’s speech was significant because, for that moment in time, he was stripped of his “blackness.” Obama wasn’t race-less, per se, but instead no longer black. The faux pas falls under the heading of colorblind ideology—i.e. the idea that racial inequality and division will disappear if we just stop obsessing over racial differences. According to the ideology’s adherents, adopting a “colorblind” outlook—pretending we don’t notice differences in skin pigment—is the pathway to a more equal, democratic civil society.

The problem with this framework in general, and Matthews’ comment in particular, is the effective whitewashing and subsuming of different cultures. In other words, the colorblind rhetoric can only be realized if all races, creeds and colors simply adopt and are assimilated into the dominant white discourse. The ideology of colorblindness doesn’t call for a new, radical framework of, say, American racial identity. No, by contrast, colorblind ideology accepts whiteness as a given from which “others” must assimilate. As Ta-Nehisi Coates argues, echoed by G.D. in Postbourgie’s recent Podcast, this failure to investigate whiteness is deeply problematic. Colorblind ideology obfuscates the intersection of race, power, and privilege by accepting the dominant racial identity as the standard from which all other races must acclimate. To accept a “colorblind” framework, therefore, is to accept the superiority and dominance of a singular racial identity.

Still, to defend Matthews ever-so-slightly, I do think his heart was in the right place. Look, the guy never thought he’d see an African-American leading the free world. For Matthews and plenty others of his generation, the idea of a black president was—until last year—unfathomable. So, in some respects, the intent of Matthews comment was to laud the normalization of a black man in a position of power. Which, in all fairness, is pretty remarkable. Just because Chris Matthews failed to introspectively challenge his own entrenched racial identity—no small task, if you ask me—doesn’t mean we should dismiss his astute observation wholesale.

Was Matthews’ commentary racist? Maybe—but only if we accept the sophisticated critique of colorblind ideology. Yet the average white American doesn’t exactly think about racial identity like this on a day-to-day basis. And, perhaps, it is this widespread pattern—not Matthews’ individual blunder—that lies at the root of the problem.

Representing Reality with Integrity

Few television shows have received as much academic praise as HBO’s The Wire. From City Hall to the classroom to the street corner, The Wire brilliantly captured the heart and soul of urban America—the same heart and soul meticulously detailed in countless academic studies of urban inequality.

Yet the scholars that research urban America rarely come into contact with the actors that portray urban America in television or film. That is, until two weeks ago when three actors from The Wire—Andre Royo (Bubbles the junkie), Sonja Sohn (Kima the detective), and Michael Williams (Omar the stickup artist)—sat down with three scholars—Harvard sociologists William Julius Wilson and Larry Bobo, and Yale graduate student/Baltimore native Brandon Terry—to discuss the social policy implications and lessons from the show.

After the panel, Royo, Song, and Willams were escorted to a private after-party at The Harvard Lampoon, a building that houses the Harvard undergraduate humor magazine of the same name. Since the panel’s moderator is also my colleague in the Sociology department, I received a highly coveted (and much appreciated) invite to the party.

As a huge fan of the show, I could barely contain myself. I tried my best to keep it cool, keeping my camera in my pocket and resisting the urge to ask for an autograph. But when I sparked a conversation with Andre Royo, my composure started to fade. See, Bubs was my favorite character on the show, and Royo’s brilliant and careful portrayal of the homeless drug addict made my admiration for the character that much stronger. After a geek-out session about the show’s integration of professional actors with actual Baltimore natives (we went back and forth for a good five minutes listing each and every B-more local that appeared on the show), we started to talk about the inherent difficulty of portraying junkie.

Of course, playing a junkie isn’t that difficult, if the whole twitching-and-randomly-scratching-yourself caricature is your thing. But fans of The Wire know that Bubbles wasn’t your average junkie. There was an art to the way Royo played Bubs, a unique take on a classic character that fundamentally changed the way we approach “the junkie:” We never pitied him when he fell, but rather rooted for him to rise back up. In a strange way, the down-and-out junkie was the show’s most consistent hero.

According to Royo, a few unpaid consultants helped him develop the character. These consultants showed up at his trailer each morning, followed him and the production crew throughout Baltimore, and advised him through each and every scene. When he threw away a cigarette before smoking it to the filter, for example, they were quick to correct his mistake. How were they privy to the intimate details of life as a junkie? Because these consultants weren’t really consultants at all: They were the men and women that lived their lives on the streets of Baltimore. The very men and women Royo’s character was based on.

After each day, he’d retire to his trailer and remove his makeup. “And when I’d walk out,” he told me, “I looked at these people that had helped me all day, and I could see the betrayal in their eyes. At the end of the day, I could get cleaned up and go home, while they spent the night on the street. They looked at me like a sellout. It [messed] with my head for a long time.” Royo would feel depressed, and after particularly long days he often needed to spend time alone, away from everyone, to gather his thoughts. Here were men and women that could barely get by, struggling with addiction, and Royo was exploiting their lived experiences to get a paycheck. I asked Royo how he dealt with the guilt. “I just tried to portray the character—their world—with humanity. That’s all I could really do,” he replied. “But it was hard for me, emotionally.”

Detailing the lives of marginalized and disadvantaged communities requires a profound responsibility—a responsibility to be humble, compassionate, and above all else, honest. When Royo waxed philosophical, introspectively analyzing his role as both actor and representative, I couldn’t help but connect. As a qualitative researcher of urban inequality, I’m constantly dealing with the label of “privileged white guy that studies poor black people.” One the one hand, I feel a moral obligation to fight for those that are systematically disadvantaged. But on the other hand, such analyses can quickly become deeply paternalistic. Those that are familiar with my work and ideas know that I reject fetishizing “the other,” taking a comprehensive approach that avoids a singular focus on poor people of color. Still, the risk of exploitation never leaves the back of my mind. I never forget that I am making a career out of someone else’s life. I never forget who I am, constantly problematizing my ability to ever fully understand someone else’s world. And I never forget why I do it in the first place or why these issues matter. Like Royo, I constantly question myself, my work, and my role as a researcher.

Representing reality—be it on television or in academic research—requires a commitment to the craft of storytelling. But more importantly, it requires integrity. It was that integrity that made The Wire so powerful, and it is that critical honesty that makes good research. Urban polemics notwithstanding, this was the show’s most valuable lesson.

Tokens and Mascots – Lessons From Malcolm X Part 2

I first learned about the Civil Rights Movement when I was in the fourth grade. It was Black History Month, and my teacher included a lesson on Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rosa Parks. I remember going home, and asking my mother—a college professor—to teach me more about these leaders. Her excitement was palpable; many of these folks influenced her work as a student activist in the 1970s, and she was impressed with my interest.

I took her teachings to heart, and began referring to Paul Robeson and Jackie Robinson as my “heroes” and “role models.” I actually still have an art project from that year which puts this watershed moment in perspective: We were asked to list one person we “look up to.” Most of my classmates listed one of their parents. I listed W.E.B. Dubois.

Yet, the idea of civil rights and racial equality was still just that: an idea. My hometown of Binghamton, New York includes seven public elementary schools. While the district-wide student population is currently about 25% black, my elementary school contained only a handful of minorities. Needless to say, I had pretty limited interaction with folks of a different race. That is, until fifth grade when Daanyaal transferred to Thomas Jefferson Elementary.

I don’t really remember Daanyaal’s background, and I’m not sure what ended up happening to him. What I do remember, however, was my excitement at the dinner table later that night. “Mom, I think I have a new friend—a black friend!” Boy, was I proud! A bona fide black friend!

There’s an entire chapter in The Autobiography of Malcolm X that addresses this kind of token “friendship.” Entitled “Mascot,” the chapter detailed Malcolm’s early childhood in Michigan and his experiences with his white foster family. He writes:

“What I am trying to say is that it just never dawned upon them [Malcolm’s foster parents] that I could understand, that I wasn’t a pet, but a human being. They didn’t give me credit for having the same sensitivity, intellect, and understanding that they would have been ready and willing to recognize in a white boy in my position. But it has historically been the case with white people, in their regard for black people, that even though we might be with them, we weren’t considered of them. Even thought they appeared to have opened the door, it was still closed. Thus they never did really see me.” [emphasis in original, p. 28]

We see discussions of tokenism in political discourse, from analyses of Colin Powell to Clarence Thomas to Barack Obama. We also see discussions of tokenism in academic discourse, as scholars have analyzed the effect of token hires in corporate America on racial inequality.

Yet the best, most poignant commentaries on tokenism are found in pop culture. The one black character on Comedy Central’s South Park is aptly named “Token.” Countless films under the “coming of age” motif generally have a minor black character, if only for superficial racial diversity. Columbia Pictures’ Not Another Teen Movie contains arguably the best tongue-in-cheek depiction of token black characters in film. In the movie, a black character named Malik enters a high school party filled with white youths. He heads to the kitchen to get a drink, and sees another black character by the keg. Malik motions to the other black guy, asking, “What are you doing here?” The other black teen responds quizzically, “What do you mean?” Malik answers, “I’m supposed to be the only black guy at this party.” The black guy apologizes, the two embrace, and he leaves the party.

As I read Malcolm’s thoughts on being a racial mascot, I thought about Daanyaal. Reflecting on Daanyaal makes me feel uncomfortable, and there’s a reason for this: I never saw Daanyaal as Daanyaal; rather, he was just “the cool black kid.” I treated him with the same paternalism and condescension that Malcolm faced as a child. It should go without saying that I have matured since fifth grade, especially in my critical understanding of race and inequality. But that doesn’t change the past, nor should it. Tokenism is highly problematic, especially in progressive circles. For that very reason, we need to be aware of it—and prepared to deal with it.

Recognizing and rejecting this tokenism is yet another important lesson we can learn from Malcolm X.

This Is Where White Guilt Comes From

It’s funny, I never really thought too much about liberal white guilt until I came to graduate school at Harvard. Now that I’m here in Cambridge, it seems to be a reoccurring topic of conversation. I don’t know, maybe the election of Barack Obama has made us think more about racial privilege. Or maybe it was conservative pundits informing me that the only reason I voted for him was my liberal, white guilt. Apparently, I just can’t seem to make a rational decision, with all that guilt building up inside me. Nor am I able to think critically about race, of course. I can’t see straight because of my overwhelming racial guilt, you see. And I just want to give people of color a leg up, even if they are “unqualified.” Damn whiteness, screwing with my moral compass!

White guilt always struck me as an interesting concept. You know, it’s like, why shouldn’t we feel guilty about things like racism and sexism, and feel a certain personal obligation to work for greater equality? I guess it can often cloud our thoughts, and cause us well-meaning white liberals to act paternalistic or reckless in search of diversity or social justice. My mom is going to kill me for writing this...but I know firsthand what it’s like to be around a, shall we say, overzealous racial liberal. She means well, but sometimes I just had to shake my head growing up.

Just like I think it’s possible to put white privilege in check, and be cognizant of my own racial advantage, so too do I think that it’s possible to keep liberal white guilt at bay. Well, at least that’s what I thought. While visiting my girlfriend’s family in Cleveland a few weeks ago, I faced a situation that helped me understand the basis of white guilt.

It was Saturday night. My girlfriend and I went out to dinner at a local chain restaurant in a (predominantly Jewish) neighboring suburb of Cleveland. Being the aspiring social scientist I am, I made the observation that the restaurant was about 50% white and 50% black. Having now spent a couple of years with me, my girlfriend has picked up on my knack for observing racial dynamics everywhere I go. She replied that she also noticed the balanced proportions.

After dinner we went to her friend’s house to hang out for a bit. Including my girlfriend and me, there were seven (white) people at the house, all gathered around the TV watching a Chris Tucker movie. She made the casual comment to the group, “We went to X restaurant tonight. It was interesting; about half white, half black. I don’t remember it being that mixed when we went to high school.” One of her friend’s roommates, flipping through a GQ magazine (I’m not making this up), fixed his collared shirt and nonchalantly chimed in: “It’s been happening for years. It used to be a cool place to hangout. It would be cool, if it wasn’t for all the schvartzes.”

These are the moments that public intellectuals like Tim Wise thrive on. The kind of situation in which you put a bigot in his place, telling him that it’s not right to use Yiddish slurs for black folks. In White Like Me, Wise goes through strategies to put white privilege in check, particularly when racist “jokes” or slurs are made amongst white friends. But I didn’t use any of Wise’s strategies. I didn’t come up with any witty response. I didn’t say, “What are you afraid of? That you will catch some sort of black disease? That their blackness will rub off on you? That somehow, being in proximity to black people will hurt your good time? This isn’t the Jim Crow South—do you expect blacks to eat at different restaurants, and frequent different stores? Are you that ignorant?” I didn’t say any of that. I didn’t demand that he clarify his insult, noting that the blacks at the restaurant that night were by and large middle-aged, and middle class (though, it shouldn’t matter). I didn’t yell, I didn’t laugh it off, I didn’t do anything. I just sat there, mind running a million miles a minute, seething with anger.

The rage continued to build up, but I didn’t say a word. I was paralyzed, shocked, stunned. I sat there, silent, and silenced by my inability to articulate a powerful response. Chris Tucker made a joke on TV, and everyone laughed. My window of opportunity to say something, anything, passed. I wanted to say, “It’s cool to laugh at their jokes, but God forbid they want to go to the same restaurant as you.” But I didn’t.

It’s moments like this—moments when we are tested and fail to respond to racism—that leave a lasting imprint and a simmering rage in the very depths of our souls. I feel ashamed that I let his comment go unchecked, and personally responsible for similar situations that occur daily. I caught a glimpse of casual, recreational racism. And I did nothing. And it made me sick.

I realized, this is where white guilt comes from.

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.

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.