Music is so deeply and intricately woven into black culture that I’d argue it is impossible to separate the two. From chanting hymns while bent over while toiling in fields of cotton to chanting “We Shall Overcome” up and down streets during the civil rights movement while being hosed down. From cleverly singing paths to freedom in the Underground Railroad to when James Brown had us shuffling down soul train lines to “Say it Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud).”
In the past, black music was readily and eagerly accepted by whites, while the musicians and singers of these ballads were rejected. Milking them of their gifts and talents, whites shunned singers like Dorothy Dandridge, swooning as she sang and sashayed across stages, but forcing her to use the back entrance of venues. This phenomenon, while cleverly disguised, is ever-present in American culture.
Young white girls dancing around their bedrooms yelling out Fetty Wap’s lyrics to “Trap Queen,” which by the way is entirely played out at this point. White men, happily and openly singing Future’s “Trap N—-s” while pushing luxury cars to their fraternity houses, not understanding 40 percent of the lyrics, let alone knowing what and where “the trap” actually is. When in good company, some even dare utter the word “N—–,” but only when they can be assured that those around them won’t be “offended.” What’s the big deal though? They’re just lyrics right?
Here’s the deal: hip-hop is a part of black culture that white society has had no problems policing and morphing to their liking. Our hair, our dress, even our names must conform to white ideals in order to be deemed “acceptable.” When rapper Nas and singer Kelis wore attire with the word “N—–” plastered across them to the Grammys in 2008, they certainly rocked the boat.
While some may say that this was simply a promotion tactic for his upcoming album, Nas certainly had a point. In an interview with a white CNN reporter, Nas stated, “It’s money being made off us poor, innocent, so-called ignorant people. So no longer are just black people n—–s today, it’s also me and you.”
It is certainly true that hip-hop is a profitable business. Forbes.com created an article titled “Hip-Hop Cash Kings,” which highlights some of the most financially successful rappers in the game. Diddy is now considered a mogul after being named the highest paid rapper at $60 million a year. Of the five men listed in the article, none of them were white. Yet, whites in America have played a crucial role in the success of hip-hop around the world.
According to an article by Michael Ralph, “70 to 75 percent of the people who purchase and own hip-hop music are white,” and although hip-hop is an industry that is dominated by blacks, none of the distribution companies that these label owners partner with are black.
The rappers we listen to are black. The lyrics that they rap generally pertain to the black community. And while rappers such as Macklemore and Iggy Azalea are celebrated for “pushing the envelope,” others are shunned and deemed misfits by society. Hip-hop is the ultimate example of how whites profit off of black culture, while shunning the very people who inspire it in the process.
I have a love-hate relationship with hip-hop, its evolution so different from its birth in the Bronx. It is not easily defined. Ranging from Mos Def to Gucci Mane, hip-hop covers a gamut of topics. While some emcees and rappers choose to focus on trap life, others rap about police brutality and politics. And whether or not some blacks chose to admit it or not, hip-hop is a part of OUR culture.
Yes, there is beauty in exchanging cultures as society, and I am not discouraging whites from buying Drake and Future’s new mixtape. But when whites sing along to Kendrick Lamar’s “King Kunta,” do they know who Kunta is? Does the message behind that song resonate with them, or is it just catchy? These may just be lyrics to them, but to many they are the picture of how far we’ve come since singing in fields of cotton.
Hip-hop for the black person will always be more than just a song.