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Wednesday, 27 January 2016

Black Woman and Hip Hop ...

The hip hop world is fairly dominant nowadays, in entertainment and media. Rarely, am I able to turn on my television, and miss the visuals of hip hop and rap artists. It wasn’t until just recently, that I realized, exactly what Hip Hop was telling me that I was. I mean how can it define me?
I’m a single black woman, and at one point in time, I’d be involuntarily pumping my fist at the visuals Queen Latifah and Lauryn Hill provided. Now, well….. I’m not particularly worried about marriage, because according to rap lyrics, I’ll probably never be worthy of being “wife-d”. Somewhere down the line of hip hop changing, young African American men were told not to wife my type. In fact, many successful “artists” who beat the odds of certain environments like poverty to become successful artists only want exotic women.
Maybe I shouldn’t leave out the fact that I’m dark skinned, and that I’ve never seen anyone who looks quite like me in their videos. Guess I should also cross out the fact that I could even be considered attractive. So many questions have begun to surface, and the one inquiry that sits at the top is: Should I hate myself?
Unfortunately, the only term today’s rappers will seem to identify me with is “b*tch”. Tutorials provided by many of todays “video vixens” tell me that if I make a little bit of money and add the hair follicles of a Brazilian woman’s to my own head, that stops at my ass, I can at least be a “bad b*tch”.
I can’t sit here and confirm that this is how I should actually feel, but how many of our “favorite emcees” choose to procreate with different women, of different states, never offering them any commitment? How can a genre that once taught me to respect myself, when no one else would, now have the audacity to tell me to hate the color of my skin as well as my natural hair? Honestly, it feels like today’s hip hop has fueled this unwanted presence of so much self-hatred, from women, mothers, just like me.
Hip hop also tells me, in various ways, that I should get some type of monetary reward for any type of sexual orientation I participate in. Should that really be my only motive? God forbid, I actually want true love. I’m now forced to decide between adding to my “bank account” via my own sexual desires and adding to the enjoyment of pure life. Let’s not leave out the fact that HIV/AIDS stereotypes live vibrantly in hip hop, and at the “same damn time” promiscuousness is encouraged to a pool of young men that I must choose from.
So, even if I want a trustworthy, loyal relationship, hip hop is telling my strong black men to “get as many women as one can handle,” and treat them like objects, not as queens. Funny yet saddening, that no one cares that black women dreadfully have taken the lead in new HIV cases.
Hi, I’m an African American woman, and if I listened to what hip hop told me that I was, I’d be the equivalent of nothing. Yesterday’s news. Material that must be morphed in order to be worthy. That would be me. Inject manmade material into my God-given body is what they say I should do if I want more “ass-ets.” Meanwhile, my curves that derived from Africa, given to me by my creator, should be more than enough.
You see, I’d rather have hip hop appreciate me, being that many of its participants derived from households raised solely by a woman. Prison rates aren’t lying to us, and the absence of “fathers” in households is a pretty vivid picture now. How do young black men grow up to spread disrespect toward African American women? Hi, I’m a young black woman, and if I listened to what Hip Hop told me I was, I’d be doomed. Defeated. Useless. Paint me another picture, because I’m not buying what Hip Hop tells me I am. I am a queen. We started out that way, and we will remain that way.

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