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
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‘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