Dear Hip Hop,

Did you know our sons and daughters, our children are dying out here in these streets?

Did you know our sons and daughters, our children are out here selling Niggah passes in these streets?

…like drugs and candy…trying to come up, they are dying in these streets, in these schools, on these blocks, at these parties…

Confused.

They don’t know that not all words belong to them or us, we can’t reclaim what was never designed to honor us…ever. It was language designed, created, invented to keep us down…so, in 2020 the thought that we can “run the jewels” and kill our masters using his words…is just…

Confusing.

How will we ever be free?

How will we ever win?

How will we ever lead…wearing the emperor’s garments and carrying his weapons?

Wearing chains

To stay cool…like Isaac Hayes.

I get it.

I grew up with you. Vinyl records. Vinyl skirts. Bamboo earrings. Free concerts in the park…sitting at the bus stop sucking on a lollipop…who knew,

The innuendo

Of sexual pleasure,

Its ear hustle

Its audio flow

The optics of lips on gloss

Would stir so much pain?

Our sons and daughters spit…

Shit they know

Nothing

and

Everything about

Because you

Do it

on the mic…

In the press

On the real

How are we supposed to feel

Where there’s…theirs…their heirs…ours

Threat to kill us in stead of protect.

I don’t get it.

I grew up with you.

We were young when they,

like Mama C and my own sorority

came at you

for expressing

what you knew.

It felt like betrayal

A portrayal

of olden days’

Values

of Respectability

Not Respeck-ability

But I get it now, like then…

Continue the debate, da battle…later.

One thought on “Dear Hip Hop,

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