Trapped in the Closet. Junk in the Attic.

I learned a writing activity from my teacher Jeff Kass that I still use when I teach. Students were instructed to begin each line of their poem with:
“Under my shirt is my….”

Then end that sentence with an important object from the past.

Jeff would ask his students to pretend that their pen was a shovel, and use it to unearth artifacts that we’ve buried and examine what they mean to us currently. While there are some funny red herrings from my past (Moon Shoes©, Jenco Jeans, Limp-Bizket Albums), in terms of Hip-hop I can specifically point to several objects that show my progression from a voyeuristic fan, to someone who understood some of the complexities that Hip-hop has to offer. I present to you a poetica, on the objects that helped me through hip-hop


Under my shirt is my Arm sleeve



When I first started playing basketball, my style of play must be described as biblical in scope. Not in that I make awe-inspiring plays that indicate a higher power (A la Lebron “King” James). Biblically in that I seem to be reinterpreting the plagues of Job. Turnovers, travels, bricks and missed layups; no matter how hard I tried I was constantly smote by the gods of basketball. While I now have tailored my play to resemble Job in my yeoman-like demeanor on the court, this was not how I first tried to cure my deficiencies. I first tried by fetishizing Black/hip-hop culture and using one of its talismans as a cure-all for what ailed me, I first tried by rocking the Allen Iverson Arm-Sleeve.

I would grant Marc this condition: Anyone who remains in this stage is a “tourist”. If you view certain items or elements of Black/hip-hop culture as a panacea, you do not understand what Hip-hop is all about. During my freshman year of college I made the erroneous assumption that if I dressed like A.I; I’d be able to play like him. Much like people who make the assumption that if you “dress hood”, you automatically become a “gangster”. I had to learn the hard way through many future basketball breakdowns that an arm-sleeve does not make a man. But at least I learned. Some individuals are still stuck at this stage, schizophrenic Cinderellas, wondering why their pumpkins aren’t turning into escalades. Wondering why the arm-sleeve doesn’t make the man.

Under my shirt is my hooded sweatshirt

Past the snake-oil insanity of Hip-hop fetishism, we reach the epicenter of most peoples’ relationship to hip-hop: adaptation. At this stage, rather than co-opting an identity, one adapts an identity that already exists, to help find their place in hip-hop. The difference between wanting to play like Allen Iverson, and thinking an arm sleeve will make you AI, is a huge one. After my hubristic basketball debacle, I reached out to the attire of a man who went through his own issues with Hip-hop: Eminem in 8 Mile

In the opening frames of Curtis Hanson’s film, we see Eminem arriving incognito, a hooded sweatshirt pulled tightly over a head staring at the ground, to attend a local battle-rap. For the audience this strikes us as Trojan-horsian, surely the greatest (White?) rapper of all time isn’t intimidated by this setting. The audience finds itself sucker-punched as Eminem takes the stage and is subsequently destroyed by a mediocre battle rapper. We watch dumbstruck as Eminem leaves, as he entered; hood over head, his gait shuffling, staring at the ground in a mix of fear and shame.
Witnessing that first scene I could not help but draw a parallel between Eminem’s failure and my own.

Despite his failure at battle rapping, Eminem is accepted up until he tries to peacock his way into hip-hop’s good graces. If I had approached the basketball court with more humility, instead of trying to recreate the flair of Allen Iverson, would I too have been accepted? I tried to answer the question by taking a new approach to hip-hop. I replaced the gaudy aesthetics of my arm-sleeve with the drab tones of Carhartt Hoodies. Waiting to return with something that wouldn't get me booed off the stage.

Under my shirt is my Hip-hop Album.

In my own classrooms, when I’ve taught Jeff’s writing workshop I’ve witnessed many powerful emotional moments. Girls breaking down over high-heels and boys angrily testifying on fathers over a baseball mitt. But the greatest satisfaction for me is when two students do poems about the same object and have completely different interpretations. It sends a chill down my teacher spine to realize that no matter how similar we are, we all have our own stories to tell.

After two years I emerged from the cave of my hoodie with my own platonic ideals of hip-hop. Though I had gone through a period as a peacock, and a recluse, I now found myself with my own ideas and interpretations. This culminated in the formation of a Hip-hop album.

Hip-hop has always been the genre most seeped in the element of story-telling, and that’s why it diffuses through as many demographics as it does. Fans of Allen Iverson pay to see him as much for his own narrative as the one he creates within a basketball game. Eminem’s fans emphatically cheer him on as he retells his history through rhymes. But hip-hop’s strengths are getting drowned out by us: the fans. We’re forgetting that while many of us come from similar backgrounds we each have our own stories to tell, and they don’t always mirror those we pay to see or hear. If under your skin is a: arm sleeve, or a hoodie, or a doo-rag, or a pair of timbs, that’s fine. But those objects alone don’t make you hip-hop. Hip-hop’s the only place where throwing your hands in the air is a sign that you agree with what’s going on.

I’m raising my hand to ask some questions.

Link to the album below:
Myspace.com/themrmess