The years spanning 1991 to 1993 
are widely recognized as the peak 
of golden age Hip-Hop. This title 
has been rightfully earned due to 
the creativity and diversity pres-
ent within the music produced 
at the time. But what about what 
came after? Hip-Hop’s evolution 
and growth in popularity during 
this period led to the dilution of its 
creative impact and what I would 
consider to be a stale placeholder 
of what once was. By no means 
do I intend to assert that the art 
form has no value now, but rather 
that this diverse and complicated 
genre has found itself riddled with 
stereotypes. To understand how it 
reached this point, we must dissect 
the evolution of Hip-Hop. Origi-
nally a creative tool of expression 
used by and for Black people, it 
has transformed into a commercial 
beast that dominates the way we, 
as Black people, perceive ourselves.
Hip-Hop is not just a genre, but 
a way of living for the people who 
partake in it. It is a culture that is 
a culmination of the history, lan-
guage and media of the Black com-
munity. It feeds into the music, and 
the music in turn feeds back into 
it. Beyond that, it is an expression 
of creativity that Black and brown 
people use to uplift themselves 
from the struggles that plague 
their communities.
In the face of the peak of the 
crack epidemic, these struggles 
intensified. When crack use surged 
in cities, legislators brought about 
the War on Drugs, and economic 
destruction and hopelessness fol-
lowed. In his article “The Crack 
Epidemic and the Transforma-
tion of Hip Hop: A Bronx Tale,” 
Mark Naison discusses how Black 
artists responded to the crisis. 
The first response was to push 
Black unity and resilience, draw-
ing influence straight from the 
Black Power movement of the ’60s 
and ’70s, in which the Black com-
munity asserted racial pride and 
empowerment. This is reflected 
in the music of artists like Public 
Enemy, which contained politically 
charged messaging and lyrics that 
appear in songs like “Fight The 
Power” and “911 Is a Joke” among 
others. By uniting, the community 

could reclaim its power and fight 
against the daunting systems at 
play. The second response is best 
understood as the emergence of 
the “hustler” or “gangsta” figure 
as both a hero and anti-hero for the 
Black community. The “hustler” 
and “gangsta” figures were very 
alike and originally represented 
success by any means necessary. In 
“The Hip Hop Wars”, Tricia Rose 
depicts these figures as a complex 
reality within major cities during 
tough times. Groups like N.W.A. 
sought to take on the livelihoods of 
these figures and tell their stories.
The 
generation 
consuming 
music at this time had almost 
nothing to lose and everything to 
gain. They were seeking escapes 
from poverty, addiction and vio-
lence in their communities and 
were in desperate need of power 
over their own livelihoods. In his 
book “Somebody Scream!” Mar-
cus Reeves discusses how once the 
“hustler” figure became an icon 
that everyone wanted to exemplify, 
N.W.A took advantage: “The age 
of crack turned urban Black com-
munities into cauldrons of selfish-
ness, paranoia and violence, and 
N.W.A turned those sentiments 
into a fresh musical movement.” 
N.W.A.’s success was a cultural 
reset that changed the trajectory 
of Hip-Hop from that point on by 
solidifying “gangsta” rap as a dis-
tinct subgenre.
N.W.A. was violent, ruthless, 
a little scary and unmatched 
in power and reach. The group 
released countless songs that blew 
up in the charts, while also discuss-
ing issues close to the communities 
from which they came — including 
those involving the police and sys-

temic racism. However, Ice Cube’s 
departure from the group led to 
less politically charged messag-
ing and more controversy. N.W.A. 
began emphasizing what we now 
understand to be key to music of 
this era: the degradation of the 
Black woman, the glorification of 
violence and drugs, and the rise of 
the “hustler” icon which manifest-
ed in both their artistic and per-
sonal lives. A prime example of this 
is Dr. Dre’s physical assault on Dee 
Barnes, which only helped to rein-
force his “gangsta” image amongst 
the general public. The members of 
N.W.A. were by no means the only 
rappers who glorified these ideals. 
2 Live Crew and Geto Boys were 
habitual offenders. Violence and 
misogynoir — hate and prejudice 
geared specifically toward black 
women — were becoming common 
issues for rappers, and the commu-
nity was torn.
This problem bubbled and 
boiled over outside of cities 
and into white America — this 
changed the game completely. 
“Gangsta” rap’s spread in non-
Black sectors of the United 
States led to peaks in commer-
cialism, allowing it to become a 
product to be sold to white teen-
agers. There are many essays 
that document the appeal of 
“gangsta” rap to white Ameri-
cans, but readers of The Source 
magazine put it best: “gangsta” 
rap gives white consumers the 
chance to “live out their ‘Ghetto 
fantasies’ ” and opens up a mas-
sive market in the music indus-
try. 

Michigan in Color
8 — Wednesday, March 29, 2023

Hip-Hop’s Evolution: from political 
empowerment to commercial beast

KARIS RIVERS
MiC Columnist

Design by Sara Fang 

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Englishman in New York

With my head on the pillow in 
a state of sleep delirium, I blindly 
click shuffle on my playlist. 
“Oh, I’m an alien, I’m a legal 
alien” — “Englishman in New 
York” 
by 
Sting 
reverberates 
throughout my bedroom, the 
sound of soprano saxophones 
swirling around in my subcon-
scious. I smile to myself, consid-
ering my own experiences as an 
“Englishman in New York.” Meta-
phorically speaking, of course, 
since I write this sitting in a coffee 
shop in the heart of Ann Arbor. 
As the saying goes, I jumped 
across the pond — from London 
to Michigan — and began living 

among fish who were complete 
strangers to me. While I thrive on 
new adventures far out of my com-
fort zone, this one in particular 
came with its own set of advantag-
es and drawbacks. On the first day 
of college, I was met with unex-
pected cultural obstacles. My first 
interaction went along the lines of: 
“Bet, I’ll see you there,” to which 
I responded, “Why are we betting 
on this?” As the semester went on, 
I began to internally decipher the 
ways in which Americans think 
and act. To my surprise, they were 
doing the same with me. 
“I don’t drink coffee, I take tea, 
my dear.” 
Sting has the right idea. I was 
astounded by the sheer amount of 
people waiting for their Starbucks 
order at any given moment in the 

day. My guilty pleasure is –– and 
always will be –– a cup of tea with 
copious amounts of sugar; coffee 
simply does not compare. On the 
topic of food, what I call “pain-
au-chocolat,” 
my 
friends 
call 
“chocolate croissant” — which I 
discovered when I ordered one at a 
cafe, much to my embarrassment. 
Later, I asked a barista where the 
toilet was, to which she gave me a 
strange look and pointed toward 
the “bathroom” sign. Before ask-
ing for water, I always prepare 
myself to eliminate the “t” entire-
ly, for fear of dehydration. 
“You can hear it in my accent 
when I talk” — so much so that 
when speaking in class, I see a 
mountain of heads turning to 
face me, their ears pricking at the 
sound of a voice unlike their own. 

My accent seemed to me like some 
sort of barrier, hindering my abili-
ty to connect. Finding it difficult to 
relate to others with what I knew, 
I began to make myself more mal-
leable by shaping my own experi-
ences to fit within the framework 
of Midwestern America. Although 
“slay” has yet to enter my vocabu-
lary, I now have my own opin-
ions on everything from ranch 
as a suitable condiment to March 
Madness to the strange phenom-
enon of using one’s hand as a map. 
Growing up in Wimbledon, 
tennis encompasses my child-
hood experiences and my neigh-
borhood. It reminds me of the 
perfect start to the summer sea-
son — afternoons spent with my 
family on Wimbledon Tennis 
grounds are a quintessential Brit-

ish experience. I recall the only 
two weeks in a year when my 
street is amassed with crowds 
from all over, scrambling to catch 
the evening matches. Playing ten-
nis also acts as a form of therapy 
for me. It requires fierce concen-
tration, sparking a connection 
between my body and my brain. 
This solitary sport forces me to 
synchronize all my senses in one 
fell swoop. 
Tennis is a topic that I speak 
about 
quite 
often, 
especially 
when interacting and introduc-
ing myself to new people. While 
some friends share my love for 
tennis, most others find it to be 
an intriguing aspect of my per-
sonality. Initially, I had perceived 
my “Britishness” as a limitation 
and something to be given little 

attention to. Instead, it became an 
instrument yielding candid con-
versations and authentic relation-
ships.
Sting reminds his listeners that 
“manners maketh man.” 
So, two years later, I now know 
that connections are not premised 
solely on similarities. I don’t need 
to mimic mannerisms or adjust 
my own identity in order to make 
space for myself within a new 
environment. The topic of ten-
nis was a conversation starter 
that was unique to me; it allowed 
me to express my own narrative. 
In truth, I prefer being the per-
son that makes heads turn and I 
enjoy the questions that follow. If 
manners do in fact maketh man, I 
would rather stick to what I know 
and learn from what I don’t.

NURAIYA MALIK
MiC Columnist

Share your ideas with the Inclusive History Project

The Inclusive History Project (IHP) is preparing to study and 
document U-M’s past and to engage members of the community in 
order to better understand our successes and failures in creating a truly 
inclusive university. We invite you to attend one of our forums to learn 
more about the IHP and to share your feedback.

Community Forums

UM-Ann Arbor 
Wednesday, April 12, 12-1 pm 
Rogel Ballroom, Michigan Union 
Lunch provided 

REGISTER FOR A
SESSION HERE:

All Campus Virtual Forum 
Tuesday, April 18, 6:30-7:30 pm

‘Where are you from?’: 
a reflection on residential segregation

It’s 9 o’clock in the morning and 
the start of the semester. Your social 
battery didn’t charge enough over 
break to be talking to dozens of 
people, but small talk and introduc-
tions are unavoidable this first week. 
When prompted, each person gives 
their spiel: Name, year, major, maybe 
a fun fact and of course “Where are 
you from?” That question always 
makes me a little uneasy. I usually 
answer with a simple “Livonia.” That 
answer though feels ingenuine as it 
doesn’t feel like the city belongs to 
me and frankly, even from a young 
age, I understood that it never did. I 
have vivid memories of an elemen-
tary school-aged me explaining how 
I lived in a “white neighborhood.” I 
knew it belonged to them. 
Even as homeowners, the Kouassi 
family rented that space. We could 
not take pride and ownership of our 
neighborhood as a home. We didn’t 
get the full benefits of suburbia that 
everyone else did. Why did my fam-
ily drive 20 minutes every day to 
Detroit and then 45 minutes every 
day to Troy to take me to school 
when other kids in the neighborhood 
simply took the bus to neighbor-
hood schools? Why did my family, 
especially my father, go to work and 
straight back home, not taking walks 
around the block or making friends 
with other families in the neighbor-
hood? And, when we first moved in, 
why were there eggs thrown at our 
house and dead birds left at our door? 
You guessed it: racism and not being 
welcomed within that environment. 
As intense as my family’s story may 
sound, it is a microcosm of the larger 
issue of housing inequality and resi-
dential segregation in this country. 
Douglas Massey and Nancy Den-
ton’s “American Apartheid” sug-
gests that racial segregation between 
Black and white populations in the 
U.S. has been steadily increasing 
since the mid-1800s. Due to rampant 
anti-Black 
racism 
post-abolition, 
indices of Black-white segregation 
almost doubled in northern cities 
and almost quadrupled in southern 
cities between 1860 and 1940. In 
historical eras that preceded this, 
while residential segregation existed, 
class was a leading factor in where 
people lived. Poor white sharecrop-
pers could be seen living alongside 

freedmen. Subsequent legislation 
and actions, however, would serve as 
a catalyst for residential segregation 
becoming increasingly racialized. 
Between the mid-1910s and 1930, 
during the Great Migration a large 
influx of Black Americans moved 
northward and westward to escape 
racial violence and gain access to 
new industrial jobs. As competition 
for these jobs increased between 
“native” white people, white immi-
grants and Black Southerners, dis-
crimination and tensions began to 
reflect this dynamic. Pre-existing 
anti-Blackness and this new resent-
ment manifested in a combination 
of private and institutionalized prac-
tices, which barred Black Americans 
from living in certain communi-
ties, leaving them segregated and 
isolated amongst themselves. Some 
common practices that were utilized 
included zoning restrictions and the 
buying out of Black residents. Others 
included restrictive covenants writ-
ten into deeds, which made owner-
ship or renting of properties by Black 
people illegal, blockbusting, redlin-
ing and physical violence. At the 
same time, white Americans were 
benefiting from the subsidization of 
suburbanization. After World War 
II, the Federal Housing Administra-
tion and Veterans Affairs began giv-
ing generous loans to white families 
moving into white, suburban neigh-
borhoods. Clear lines began to form 
between groups, thus creating the 
“Black ghettos,” void of resources 
and opportunities, and the “white 
neighborhoods” that a younger ver-
sion of me could clearly identify. 
Even after the Fair Housing Act 
outlawed these more overt forms of 
discrimination in 1968, the intense 
racial segregation persisted via 

more covert forms of discrimina-
tion. Banks began to discriminate 
by either not supplying loans to 
Black families or by only consider-
ing more risky loans. Real estate 
agents would strategically only show 
certain homes to Black families and 
white families would participate in 
white Flight by leaving a neighbor-
hood after a Black family moved 
in, for fear of their property value 
dropping or of integration. Living in 
proximity to Black families became 
a threat to white families’ social and 
economic capital. Within six months 
of my family moving into the neigh-
borhood, a white family moved 
away. Then within two years of our 
move, another white family left the 
neighborhood. While I don’t know 
the exact reason for their leaving, in 
many ways, this echoed the trends 
of the past. My family represented a 
threat to them, their property value 
and their community’s white purity 
and homogeneity. 
My Black family is not a threat. 
None of the Black families that have 
been subject to discriminatory 
housing practices were. We are like 
any other family. We have family 
dinners, we sing and dance togeth-
er, we tend to our lawns, we laugh, 
we cry, we survive and we ignore 
the isolation of our house’s walls. 
So when I introduce myself in class, 
sure, I will still say I am from Livo-
nia. However, when I say it, I will 
say it without pride because I know 
Livonia, and cities like it around the 
country, as well as their people and 
their practices, are and have his-
torically been a threat to my family 
and people that look just like me.

LAUREN KOUASSI
MiC Columnist

Aditi Khare/MiC

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

Read more at MichiganDaily.com

