Next Wave Cultures

Feminism, Subcultures, Activism

Anita Harris

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781135909109
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Education
• Subtopic: Education General

Whereas once young women's feminist activism could be easily identified, today this resistance seems obscure, transitory, and disorganized. In Next Wave Cultures, established and emerging scholars provide an interdisciplinary examination of young women's multilayered lives. This collection demonstrates that young women have new ways of taking on politics and culture that may not be recognizable under more traditional paradigms, but deserve to be identified as socially engaged and potentially transformative nonetheless. Exploring the ways in which girls' various cultural pursuits are tied to identity formation and relate to issues of class, sexuality, ethnicity, religion, ability, and, gender, Next Wave Cultures highlights both the limitations and opportunities afforded by globalization of youth consumer culture. This valuable collection is a necessary read across disciplines—especially to those in the fields of education, gender and cultural studies, sociology, and psychology.

Part I

Hustling, Fighting, Surfing, and Sex: Infiltrating Masculine Domains

1

What Is This Gangstressism in Popular Culture?

ANGIE COLETTE BEATTY

In 1992, Stuart Hall posed the question, “What is this ‘black’ in black popular culture?” (1996, 465). More than one decade later—amidst head-locking identity politics, postfeminist powergrrrl puffery, and an ambiguous “keepin’ it real” credo; amidst the fallout from yet another explosion of Black panache in entertainment media; and amidst the continued struggle for cultural hegemony, which according to Hall, is “waged as much in popular culture as anywhere else” (1996, 468)—I pose a similar question. What is this gangstressism in popular culture?

Previous studies (Bost 2001; Emerson 2002; Keyes 2002, chap. 7; Roberts 1991; Rose 1994, chap. 5; Skeggs 1993) have primarily focused on the sexual politics of female rappers while minimally attending to their uses of violence and aggression as agency, if at all. This is both understandable and warranted given the history of Black female sexual oppression in America and its accompanying sexualized media images of Black women and girls (Bobo 1995, chap. 1; Crenshaw 1993, chap. 5; Harris 1996, chap. 1; hooks 1992, chap. 4; James 1999, chap. 6; Keyes 1993, 203–220; Projansky 2001, chap. 5; Rose 1994, 152; Wyatt 1997, chap. 2; Young 2001, chap. 15). However, because Black women, and women in general, are recipients of violence far more often than they are perpetrators, it is important to explore and make meaning of the rage of contemporary female rappers in ways that parallel analyses of male gangsta rappers and their artistic discourse.

Thus, the aim of this chapter is to investigate the commercial rise of the hip hop gangstress,¹ particularly the gangstress emcee (rapper)—a figure who represents an otherwise socially hidden subgroup of women and girls. Because female gangstaism in hip hop is an understudied phenomenon, this chapter opens by briefly outlining the ways in which both academic and popular writings have characterized, and oftentimes mischaracterized, female gangsta rappers and their discourse when they are recognized at all. I then introduce a framework of gangstressism, which centers the female voices of both street hustlers and commercially successful gangstress rappers, with a focus on hustling as a strategy for economic mobility. In doing so, I make a case for a hip hop feminist epistemology to investigate the subjugated thought and behavior of young Black women that simultaneously addresses gender, race/ethnicity, sexuality, class, culture, and historical context.

Constructions of Gangstaism in Popular and Academic Writings

Prior to the mid-1990s, female rap discourse was characterized by gender and race conscious voices of artists whom scholar Tricia Rose describes as “politically correct underdogs” (1994, 147), and who many hip hop fans endearingly refer to as “strong Black women.” These artists include Roxanne Shanté, Salt-N-Pepa, MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, Monie Love, Yo-Yo, Ms. Melody, and Harmony (Rose 1994, chap. 5). Also popular during that time is what ethnomusicologist Cheryl Keyes (2002, 189–194) identifies as the “Queen Mother” style or category of female rappers. Considerably overlapping with the feminist category, Queen Mothers include Queen Kenya of hip hop’s Zulu Nation (the first women to adopt the Queen qualifier, but not to record under it), Queen Latifah, Sister Souljah, Harmony,² Yo-Yo, Nefertiti, Isis, and Queen Mother Rage. Adorning their bodies with African headdresses, hairstyles, cloth, and jewelry, Keyes asserts that these artists may be aware of the historical significance of African queens. Additionally, she argues that, “Their rhymes embrace black female empowerment and spirituality, making clear their self-identification as African, woman, warrior, priestess, and queen. Queen Mothers demand respect not only for their people but for black women by men” (2002, 189–190).

Although the conscious-style discourse remained popular for both men and women in the early 1990s, so-called gangsta rap (or reality rap as it sometimes called), became popular, first on America’s West coast in the late-1980s, and later grabbed a mainstream toehold by the early 1990s (George 1998, 42–44; Rose 1994, 58–59). Because this genre of rap is predominated by young African American men and characterized by violence, nihilism, hypersexuality, materialism, leisure drug use, misogyny, homophobia, and occasional race/class political protest, unsurprisingly, male gangsta rappers have become the primary subjects of debate in political arenas, the popular press, and academic inquiry.

In mainstream rhetoric, such inquiry has often functioned to confirm stereotypical beliefs about Black men and Black people in general, and to justify racially and class-based discriminatory practices (Binder 1993; Fried 1996; Lusane 1993; Rose 1994, 124–145). For example, in 1995, Bob Dole attacked the film and music industries for insinuating “nightmares of depravity” (Lacayo 1995, 26) into America’s dreams. Particularly, he singled out rap music and media giant Time Warner, which had previously distributed the controversial song “Cop Killer.”³ One day following Dole’s speech, former Education Secretary and drug czar William Bennett contacted Time Warner board members requesting that the company cease distribution of rap music that contains offensive lyrics (Lacayo 1995). Moreover, although “Cop Killer,” which Ice-T’s speed metal band Body Count recorded, was clearly a metal or even a hard rock song, mainstream discourse, nonetheless, referred to it as gangsta rap and used it as a weapon against rap music in general (Rose 1994, 130, 183).

Unsurprisingly, members of the hip hop community have fired back against this race and class bias to provide more accurate depictions of hip hop culture. However, these writings, most of which are male-authored, depict not only gangsta rap, but also rap music in general, as Black male and heterosexual (Rose 1994, 152; McLaren 1995). Moreover, when these writings (LaGrone 2000; Pinn 1999; Quinn 1996; Ro 1996; George 1998, 184–186) do not completely erase women artists from gangsta rap history or reduce them to their sexuality, they often sideline them in a revisionist male narrative in a variety of ways.

Noteworthy is Clarence Lusane’s (1993) acknowledgment of the substantive nature of some gangstress protest. Nevertheless, he appears somewhat intolerant of their approach. He writes, “While addressing important themes such as date rape and adultery, their solutions, more often than not, are to just blow the suckers away. The bottom line is that women should act as doggish and reactionary as men” (41). This is in contrast, however, with Lusane’s perspective on male gangstaism. He asserts,

It’s a pedagogy necessitated by the abandonment of black youth by the nation’s political institutions and leaders of all colors. As Kelley notes, rap reflects and projects “the lessons of lived experiences (1992, 796).” One does not have to agree with the rantings and rage of Ice-T, Sister Souljah or other rappers to unite with their sense of isolation, anger, and refusal to go down quietly. Ignored and dissed by both major political parties and much of what passes for national black leadership, is it any wonder that Ice Cube reflects the views of so many youth. (Lusane 1993, 38)

What is most interesting here is Lusane’s inclusion of Sister Souljah among various male gangsta rappers (including NWA, Geto Boys, and MC Ren), whom he admits are notoriously misogynist. Although the hip hop community regards Souljah as a woman who advocates for justice and respect for Black people, generally, as Patricia Collins (2000) notes, both Sister Souljah’s music and autobiography have been “dismissed within feminist classrooms in academia as being ‘nonfeminist’” (p. 16) because of Souljah’s failure to critique Black patriarchy, particularly within Black nationalist ideology and practice. Also key is the fact that Lusane aligns male gangsta rappers with politics and leadership, whereas he associates gangstress rappers with themes. Consequently, women’s stories are devalued, as he does not deem these artists as political.

While I concur that the extreme approaches taken by both male and female gangsta rappers to address various social issues and inequalities, although sometimes necessary, are often fraught with problems, my point is that analyses that recognize only the protest of “positive” or “strong” women as legitimate, function to penalize women who transgress gender norms. Moreover, as women’s studies scholar Gwendolyn Pough (2004) argues, these types of representations of Black womanhood “help remix the classic Madonna/whore split” (p. 93). Consequently, the pain, sense of isolation, and anger that many poor urban women of color experience are denied.

Feminist Perspectives on Gangstressism

Analyses of gangstress rappers and their artistic discourse, as well as serious acknowledgment of their pain and anger as young Black lower-class females, remain conspicuously marginalized not only in the popular press, but also in academic literature. Nonetheless, a small but developing body of feminist and women-authored works provides the basis for a gangstress framework. Either through textual analysis of women’s hip hop music (Bost 2001; Skeggs 1993) and their music videos (Emerson 2002; Shelton, 1997), or through ethnographic and historiographic methods (Keyes 1993, 203–220, 2000, 2002, chap. 7; Rose 1994, chap. 5), these authors convincingly argue that gangstress emcees are far more than pale imitators of male rappers. Says Keyes (2002), who categorizes gangstresses as “Sistas with Attitude,”⁴ these female emcees

value attitude as a means of empowerment and present themselves accordingly. Many of these sistas have reclaimed the word “bitch,” viewing it as positive rather than negative and using the title to entertain or provide cathartic release. … As an “aggressive woman who challenges male authority” … the Sista with Attitude revises the standard definition of “bitch” to mean an aggressive or assertive female who subverts patriarchal rule. … Because the element of signifying is aesthetically appealing in this style of rap, these terms may have both negative and positive meanings, depending on the context. (200)

Similar to Keyes, regarding the ways gangstresses resist dominant ideologies, Shelton adds that female gangstas subvert the traits of the nuclear family structure. She argues that their “lyrics and video narratives represent women bearing children without the sanction of marriage in order to debunk the negative mythos surrounding single African American mothers” (1997).

Regarding gangstresses’ violent approaches or “revenge fantasies” for countering sexism, like Rose (1994, 174–175), Beverley Skeggs (1993) offers that although such approaches may not be ideal, they might give men who believe they have unconditional access to women pause. Additionally, she argues:

By using masculine subject positions and using the techniques of masculinity, the female rappers expose the unequal gendered access to power and the concomitant process that normalizes inequality. Just as Ice T uses his music to “threaten” the police into accountability, BWP etc. use their music to make men equally accountable. (317)

Although these works make important contributions regarding the ways in which gangstresses negotiate their identities in a predominantly Black masculine space within a larger predominantly White and male space, most of them either focus on earlier gangstress rappers or briefly attend to them, while focusing on “feminist” rappers (such as Queen Latifah) who were more popular during the mid-1980s to early 1990s. This is an important point because, although the gangstressism of earlier (such as H.W.A. and BWP) and later rappers (such as Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown) do not necessarily diverge thematically, the meaning of their music, as a function of the increasing commodification of gangsta rap specifically and of hip hop music and culture in general, necessarily changes. Additionally, a consideration of the role of commercialism in gangstressism (as well as gangsta rap in general) serves to question the utility of gangstress practice as a strategy to attain and sustain success in the music and broader entertainment industries. These points are most intriguing to me because, not only has gangstress rap displaced so-called conscious or political discourse, but also the latter has virtually disappeared in commercial rap music, situating artists who self-identify as gangsta bitches as unchallenged voices of young Black womanhood (Dodd 2001; Morgan 1997). As writer Joan Morgan (1997) notes in an Essence magazine article, entitled “The Bad Girls of Hip Hop,”

It would have been easier if the honors had gone to Lyte, Latifah, Salt-N-Pepa or Yo Yo. Then we could have waxed eloquent about Afro-feminine regality, refined sensuality and womanist strengths. But it didn’t go down like that. The history makers were DaBrat, the first female rapper to have her premier album go platinum, and Foxy Brown and Lil’ Kim, both of whom debuted at the top of the Billboard chart—sistas with the lyrical personas of stay-high juvenile delinquents and hypersexed (albeit couture-clad) hoochie mamas. And while I hardly consider this a feminist victory, the success of these baby girls speaks volumes about the myths shrouding feminism, sex and Black female identity. (77)

Recognizing this commercial shift or changing of the guard between feminist/womanist- and gangstress-oriented discourse, the latter of which was marginalized in rap music prior to this time, Morgan addresses key questions in the debate regarding the utility, meaning, and consequences of gangstress practice for public consumption. Regardless of whether one identifies as feminist, womanist, or otherwise, concern regarding the encroaching ramifications in one’s daily life, such as how one will be treated by men and boys at a social event, while walking down the street or in a shopping mall, or during a job interview, is understandable. It is no surprise then, that many women and girls, especially Black women and girls (perhaps more privately than publicly), receive this newer Teflon-veneered⁵ female face of rap with mixed emotions (Keyes 2002, 200).

“This Is All To Come Up”: Hustling as a Strategy for Economic Mobility

A Hip Hop Feminist Epistemology

Because hip hop gangstressism remains largely unexplored in academic writings, Gangstresses (Pitts and Davis 2000), a raw and uncensored 90-minute video documentary heavily informs the framework I develop here. Filmed over the course of a two-year period, the documentary chronicles the lives of poor urban young Black women and girls who have resorted to unconventional means of survival. Interviewing more than fifty women, director Harry Davis traveled to various densely African American populated urban areas across the United States, such as Detroit, Chicago, and Brooklyn. The women range from commercially successful hip hop artists such as Mary J. Blige and Lil’ Kim, to underground emcees⁶ and adult film entertainers. Additionally, hip hop mogul Russell Simmons and male emcees such as Tupac Shakur provide brief commentary.

Aside from Gangstresses’ focus o...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half Title page
• Critical Youth Studies
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Series Editor Introduction
• Introduction Youth Cultures and Feminist Politics
• Part I Hustling, Fighting, Surfing, and Sex Infiltrating Masculine Domains
• Part II Creating Spaces
• Part III New Activisms Cultural and Political
• Contributors
• Index