I Was Drowning, Mac Miller Saved Me

by Nadirah Simmons

It’s been a little over a month since Mac Miller passed away - the same amount of time it took me to write this. Grief is complicated.

When my coworker dm’d me that Mac Miller passed away I didn’t believe it. Just three weeks before his death he was at our job performing “Ladders.” Anticipating his appearance we spent a whole hour going through songs from when he was “Easy Mac with the cheesy raps,” breaking down our favorite cuts on Swimming, ruminating on his growth and the evolution of his sound since he dropped his first tape and then finally stressing about how (at the time) there were no VIP or meet and greet packages for the upcoming tour. 

Today is October 10, and I am still grieving.

Maybe because I’ve followed his career from the jump. Back when he was half of the Ill Spoken duo with Beedie and “Like Aay!” was bumped religiously on my Sony NW-E305.

Maybe because his “Under The Influence of Music” tour with Wiz Khalifa was the first concert I attended at the age of 17, where Kendrick Lamar, Shoolboy Q, Chevy Woods and Chiddy Bang opened. Where I finally got to rap curse words in public to the tune of “Lucky Ass Bitch.”

Maybe because “He Who Ate All The Caviar,” released under his pseudonym Larry Fisherman, was the soundtrack to every pregame my first year at Rutgers.

Maybe because he had such a profound reverence for the culture of which he became a permanent fixture, and it was reciprocated from peers like Chance the Rapper and YG-both of whom opened for him on separate tours-to veterans like Hov. 

All of those things are true. And his passing made it clear I wasn’t the only kid who clamored to get tickets to his shows. I wasn’t the only kid who changed their middle name on Facebook to “MostDope.” I wasn’t the only kid who stalked the fuckyeahmacmiller tumblr religiously. I wasn’t the only kid who would spend their nights after school watching TreeJTV (which made the ‘Mac Miller and the Most Dope Family’ television show a real treat). I wasn’t the only kid annoyed with Pitchfork for giving Blue Slide Park a 1.0 rating (“Of the Soul” alone made it worthy of at least a 7.5). And I wasn’t the only kid drowning that Mac helped save.

“Poppy” was essential to my grieving process after my grandfather passed my first year of college. “I’ll Be There” stayed on repeat as I watched my dad battle cancer. Faces helped 20-year-old me me feel less ashamed of being depressed, and walked me through the anxiety, sadness, change in energy level and self-esteem. The Divine Feminine served as the soundtrack to finding love. Swimming reminded me to do just that when I lost it. Somehow, Mac Miller managed to be there to help me through everything. 

It feels like I lost a friend, like we all lost a friend. The friend you had lunch with every year until you graduated high school, only to end up going to the same college. The friend that would drop everything to come see you if you were sad. The friend that would sleep over at your house even when you weren’t there. The friend that would call your parents “mom” and “dad” because that’s how tight you were. 

The friend whose absence keeps you up at night. The friend whose music feels a bit different now when their songs end. The friend whose cancelled tour notification made their passing that much more painful. The friend who helped you stay afloat, only to one day stop swimming themselves.

I tweeted that I was going to be sad about losing him for the rest of my life, and through the couple hundred retweets I was assured I was not alone. At my toughest, lowest moments, Mac Miller was there. And even in loss the one thing that brings me peace is that he existed. And he grew. And he taught. And he loved. And he kept swimming, from 92’ til infinity, and beyond.

Meet BLEMME: The Rap Collective On Their Debut EP, Queer and Transgender Identity and Staying True to the Game

Photo by Sakona Fitts

by Nadirah Simmons

I dialed into the conference call this past Sunday afternoon. One by one, the women of the rap collective BLEMME joined in - Caesher from Boston, Sekai from New York and Kee, originally from Los Angeles, calls in from Illinois.

Despite the distance between each of the members I knew immediately I was in the midst of a sisterhood unlike anything I had ever witnessed before. Within an instant the women of BLEMME began chatting like they were in the same room. When one of them was done speaking, another member was quick to pick up where they had left off with an “I agree” or an “I echo that,” adding a chunk of knowledge that only enhanced someone else’s opinion. They also knew what each other’s answers would be to many of the questions, laughing at how obvious the responses would be to queries like “Who is your favorite artist?”

It’s the kind of camaraderie you would hope to see amongst any group in any business. Be it music or another profession, there’s no doubt that having a certain level of respect for and understanding of the people you work with takes whatever you’re creating to another level. This kind of community is especially important for Black LGBTQIA+ people, who face discrimination from the Black community and the LGBTQIA+ community alike. Bringing this reality into the heteronormative and hypermasculine space that is Hip-Hop makes that fellowship all the more necessary.

That’s part of what makes BLEMME so great. The women-two of whom identify and transgender and one of whom identifies as queer-are reframing the genre. Because if Hip-Hop is a product of Black culture then by default it is a product of all of its people-cisgender, transgender, queer, disabled, etc. And beyond this the women have created music not simply out of necessity, but out of a love and respect for the culture.

The Gumbo talked to the women of BLEMME about surveillance, the importance of writing your own raps, the release of their first project and why Onika Tanya Maraj reigns supreme. 

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The Gumbo: You are calling in from three different states, how did you find each other?
Sekai: We went to school together!

Caesher: And we were just friends before anything. That’s how we found each other. As far as the group thing we just had a love for rap and Hip-Hop in a deeper way than other folks around us.

Kee: That’s real. I was in my final semester of college when I met Caesher and got to know Sakai more. I think those moments we just bonded and connected. Caesher used to make fun of me because I used to rap random bars and lyrics to people’s songs and Caesher would be like “uh uh you should be a rapper, you should be a rapper!” 

So when did you all decided to create BLEMME and what makes you different from other groups?
S: We don’t really remember. I just remember Caes and Kee were like okay we’re in a group now. They were able to push me out of my comfort zone and I was like “okay we’re really good at this!”

C: I wanted to touch on the second half of the question. Literally everyone says y’all are just spitting and y’all are dedicated to the craft. That’s not what just makes y’all different, that makes you stand out. A lot of the time when you hear popular music from queer and trans artists it’s usually a pop bop or something heavily influenced by ballroom culture and that is great, but not every one of us is from that culture. So I think it’s very important to shine a light on all different queer or trans artists, specifically those who identify as femme or women because it’s more to it. We’re multifaceted.

It’s apparent in the music you have created. Who are some rappers who influenced you?
S: Go ahead and say it…

C: (Laughs) Everyone who knows me knows it’s Nicki Minaj!

I knew it, I saw her all over your Instagram (laughs)!
C: I cannot talk about me falling in love with Hip-Hop without mentioning Nicki Minaj. I think she gets a lot of flack. I think of being younger during the Pink Friday era and hearing my cousins and older brother say “this is for girls.” And I was like “this is where it’s at!” And I think a lot of other people who are in more visible places than us have been influenced by her too, whether they admit it or not!

K: I couldn’t give you an age [for when I fell in love with Hip-Hop], but the people I used to listen to growing up were Nas, Foxy Brown and Tupac. When Nas rapped: “Hit the Earth like a comet—invasion!/Nas is like the Afrocentric Asian: half-man, half-amazin’” I was like come through! … Then watching Foxy Brown embrace sensuality in ways that were really, really beautiful and to be dark-skinned. And one of the things I am obsessed with about her, her flow is unmatched. I feel like she is so underrated. I love Nicki Minaj too, me and Caes love her. We love her down! And even Nicki says she’s influenced by her so much … And then I love me some Tupac!

S: Also Nicki Minaj. I remember being in high school when Beam Me Up Scottie came out and only like three people knew it but we were rapping it in classrooms. Kendrick is an influence too, his storytelling. And I really like Leikeli47 as well.

Each of you named some of the biggest rappers in the game and rappers that people consider some of the best at their craft. With their presence in the culture how do you all feel about the current state of Hip-Hop?
S: I think there are too many non-Black people profiting off of Black vision and Black aesthetic.

C: I agree. A new trend is introduced by Black folks, it’s dragged on and usually non-Black or people who aren’t of the culture who perpetuate it. In the age of social media everything is so fast you’re just popular based on what sells very quickly and not on something that exudes longevity. 

K: I think there are so many, so many rappers who don’t write their own music. And the ones who do a lot are mediocre. So when BLEMME got together we really dedicated ourselves to writing our own music. So when we sit down we’re recording things, we’re mixing and mastering stuff-Sakai is a brilliant producer. Genius producer. But we can all get a beat from wherever we are in the country and we can do really, really well on it. We value writing and storytelling.

Each of you clearly has a respect for the culture, which I think should the barometer when it comes to acceptance within Hip-Hop communities. But we know how the culture is. Were you ever apprehensive or nervous about how you would be received as transgender and queer women?
C: I think yes, for me personally. Not so much as putting myself out there but more who would receive me and how I would be received. And I think I can say that for each member in the group.

K: One of the biggest things was that I was really afraid for my mom to hear my music! She’s an old-head and she likes music in general, and she’s always supported me. Once my mom told me liked my music and to keep doing you nobody could tell me anything!

What does it mean for each of you to be in a Hip-Hop group within a genre and culture that’s not always that accepting?
C: For me what it means is kind of a gaze and a hyper-surveillance. If you’re spitting music and putting it out regularly you’re not hiding. The gaze just increases because I am Black and I am trans and I identify as a woman. In Hip-Hop, at least nowadays, they’re going to stand out because that’s just the way it is.

K: I definitely echo Caesher’s sentiments. I feel like for me I’m always underestimated at any point in my life. In Hip-Hop and in college and all these different moments in my life where I was trying to do what I needed to do to get to where I needed to go. I think when people look at me they assume particular things and they’re often wrong. And the way in which race intersects with gender and the way that intersects with queerness is really important to Black identity and has been a focal point in the creation of Black culture and Hip-Hop. Hip-Hop was pioneered out of political moment back in the 70s which also arguably trans Black women and queer Black people were a part of too, because we were a part of that community. So I think it’s important that we are all visible in Hip-Hop because it’s not only going to push the culture forward but also shed light on what has already existed.

S: With representation in music comes money. And with money comes with survival.

Representation is everything, but sometimes there are artists who will put on queerness because it seems cool or fun. Or straight, cisgender men will write a song about girls kissing girls because it appeals to their hypermasculinity. And then they won’t actually be here for the LGBTQIA+ community in real life.
C: The first person that comes to mind is Young M.A., who is very talented. She stands in her truth and I appreciate that about her as an artist. But when it comes to her audience and who I tend to hear say they love her, it’s folks who are attracted to her. Which then makes her more marketable. It’s like the saying women artists will say that folks tell them, that you have to either want to be f*cked or women have to want to be you. That rings true when it comes to that situation, because when I hear about queerness in Hip-Hop on a popular level it’s usually like a Young M.A. Which is disappointing because yes, it’s pivotal and important and also let’s deconstruct masculinity. Let’s talk about what that means. Let’s also not just be here for somebody because we want to lay down with them. Let’s support everybody on the spectrum. Because I can name people who will support a Young M.A. but they won’t support a Caesher or a Kee or a Sakai.

S: I also think there’s a juxtaposition there. I also see cis men saying they’re going to turn her out, hypersexualizing her.

K: People fetishize these weird, imaginary queer relationships [of celebrities] and in practice they hate us. And we give all of them money. [These artists] benefit from queer communities invested in their music…It’s just really important to put out there that queer people, queer Black people, have influenced and made Hip-Hop what it is!

Now you are all here creating your own music. Take me behind the process of creating your first single “blkNblu.”
C: Sakai made the beat. And we were all in different places at the time when we got it and we each just wrote.

S: We kind of did it in a Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants way.

How does it feel to have your first project out there and for the world to see?
K: It’s intimidating as hell! It’s scary as f*ck. We talk about this often, being hyper-criticized and trying to develop ways to deal with that type of criticism. We all know there’s trolls online, and trolls exist to simply be haters. They’re you’re number one fans but they exist solely to wreak havoc. So what happens when those people start saying sh*t and you begin to take it heart? My goal isn’t to take it to heart. My goal is to let it roll of my back. But I’m human and I’m afraid. But also very, very ready.

S: We’ve been working on this for a year now, and it was very surreal to have it come out. Most people knew we were a group but no one really heard it until we put it out.

C: It’s very rewarding. And I’m very very proud to do this in a collective and to have this sisterhood.

Where do you see the group five years from now?
K: At the Grammys!

C: I see us having more visual projects and our music being involved in more visual projects like tv, film and online series.

S: I agree with both!

Listen to their debut EP Vol. 1 below.

Love of My Life

by Megan Ambers

My mother was a fan of the sounds of Anita Baker and Luther Vandross and growing up she was strict about the music I could listen to. On the other hand my father loved rap, and because of him I grew accustomed to Tupac and Dr. Dre. At the time Hip-Hop felt sinful. Between the curse words and the topics-I knew if my mother found out what I was listening to I would be in trouble. But at the same time, I believed that if it was bad for me to listen to it then I was missing out on something amazing. 

As I grew older my mother loosened her restrictions on the music that I could listen to, thankfully so. By the time I got to middle school I was listening to Juvenile, Lil Wayne and The Big Tymers-artists whose music would not have met my mother’s approval years prior. I was enamored by their music and the bounce sound created by synthesizers, drum machines, heavy bass, Mardi Gras Indian chants and call-and-response routines. Not to mention the gold grills and their accents intrigued me as well. 

In high school, everything I took in was influenced by Hip-Hop. Aside from listening to the music, I spent a lot of time watching films like Juice, Save the Last Dance and Dangerous Minds-all movies influenced by the culture in some way, shape or form. In a matter of years I went from being restricted from Hip-Hop to something like a full on ambassador. By the time I reached my senior year in high school I was an expert on the culture-the music, fashion, etc. Not to mention I mostly surrounded myself with rappers, musicians and spoken word poets. It felt safe. It felt like home. And through Hip-hop I felt alive. 

I became so entangled with the world of Hip-hop that I wanted to share exactly how I felt about it to everyone. As a result I pursued a career in music journalism, where I realized that despite the number of women in media that loved Hip-Hop as much as I did, our opinions were are often passed over in favor of a man’s. The misogyny that my mother didn’t want me listening to in the music didn’t only appear in my favorite songs, but also in journalism. My breadth of knowledge on all aspects of Hip-Hop didn’t stop me being overlooked to do certain jobs and interview certain artists. But through this realization emerges an important truth: I’m not the only woman who feels this way. I’m not the only woman who has had these experiences. And, if I’m not alone, I am certain that this time I am not the one missing out on something amazing. They are.

The New Kid

by Sabrina Holder

I was never able to enjoy the beauty of Hip-Hop as a kid. I was an Air Force brat who lived overseas for the first 15 years of my life. Couple that with being raised in a Brazilian household where there was no Hip-Hop to be found. The only American artists I was exposed to were Michael Jackson, Prince, Destiny’s Child, Whitney Houston and Will Smith-dear God, please don't judge me for having the Willennium album in my collection. And while I would occasionally hear Eminem and 50 Cent while living in Thailand, it was an iconic group that really woke up my love for Hip-Hop. 

I was getting ready to start my first day of high school in Bangkok as MTV blasted in the background playing Hip-Hop 90’s hits. I remember the second I heard the introduction and had to run to see who it was: A Tribe Called Quest’s “Electric Relaxation.” Their unique style made me fall in love automatically, with their gritty monochrome music video, unique sense of fashion (all I saw were school uniforms -- give me a break), Q-Tip’s unmistakable voice, and the song’s sampling of Ronnie Foster’s “Mystic Brew.” Hip-Hop blended with Jazz was an eargasm for me. I had to find more like it.

And I did.

Suddenly a genre that was previously nonexistent to me became a part of every stage of my life, my humanity and my growth.

When I experienced my first encounter with depression, lyrics from Kanye West, Nas, Fabolous, Missy Elliott, Common, Notorious B.I.G., Ice Cube affirmed what I was feeling. When I moved to Virginia I dug into Kendrick Lamar's Section.80 and Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, which featured the jazz-hop instrumentals I fell in love with. When I met my husband we connected through Hip-Hop. When we got our dog we named him after rapper Tabi Bonney. And my career has allowed me to work with Hip-hop greats, including The LOX, Bad Boy Entertainment, Kid Capri, Camp Lo, and more.

My husband always says “Hip-hop saved my life and gave me my wife,” but I can't figure out a catchy phrase to explain what it did for me. It will always have a place in my heart and be important in my growing family. Years later I am no longer the new kid.  

Hip-Hop: A Love Story As Told by Lauryn Hill

By: Njera Perkins

The film Brown Sugar showed me how great Hip-Hop was. Not only did the movie perfectly chronicle the beauty of Hip-Hop from its roots in the Bronx to its evolution in the present-day, but it also positioned the quotable line “When did you first fall in love with Hip-Hop?” at the root of a love story. The answer to this question is different for everyone. For some it was a single track that changed their entire perspective on Hip-Hop. For me it was The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill that showed me a whole new world I never knew existed. Her album gifted me an unconditional love for Hip-Hop that only her talents could produce.

Her timeless offering evolves around independence, self-worth, and most of all love. On each track Hill explores every form of love there is to know - heartbreak, toxic love, self-love, loss, and motherhood. Songs like “To Zion” exemplified the pureness of a mother’s love for her child, while “Nothing Even Matters” and “When It Hurts So Bad” reminded us that love could bring us our highest highs and lowest lows.

Hill positioned Black women as complex, multilayered individuals and also affirmed our right to feel, think and challenge without hesitation. She encouraged us to have pride in ourselves and reject notions that Black women are creatures incapable of experiencing true, healthy love. She challenged us to embrace every part of our identity-even the parts society wasn’t ready to accept. And, in the face of misogynoir that aims to silence our womanhood and Blackness, Lauryn Hill’s album provided the soundtrack to combat it. 

Yet her impact didn’t end there. Her willingness to speak on taboo narratives paved the way for others to expand their palettes. Black women were given a blueprint to defy the status quo and write our own, authentic truths. It was made for women like me, who need sincere messages in a genre that isn’t always so affectionate. Who need symbols of love that came from compassion and tenderness instead of exploitation and abuse. Who need affirmations that they too should demand the attention of everyone in a world where the genius of Black women is often overlooked. 

Everyday I fall more and more in love with Hip-Hop, but it was Lauryn Hill’s debut that taught me how to love Hip-Hop and how Hip-Hop could love me back.

Y'all Tucked In?

by Kayla Pearson

I’ve always had an appreciation for detail. The more details, the better. That explains why in Kindergarten I would always be called on last during story time, because as my teacher told my mother: my “stories are always the longest.” And they were.  If I couldn’t visualize and feel every word being spoken, you’d be hard pressed to keep my attention. Thus, it was only right for me to fall in love with Hip-Hop through a story.

The year was 2009. Christmas came and went, and I planned on spending the remainder of my break glued to one of the most life altering gifts I had ever received: a Philips MP3 Player. Thanks to my brother, Limewire and Bearshare, it was preloaded with more music than I could have asked for. With the press of a button the palm-sized device took my ears through the sounds of artists like Angela Bofill, Minnie Riperton, and Jeffrey Osborne, every single banger involving or produced by Pharrell, and songs by Floetry or my girl Jilly from Philly (Jill Scott). But it was one classic that would change my perspective on music forever. 

I would start the song. Stop it. Rewind it. Then play it again, over and over. It was this sequence of actions that allowed my love for “Children’s Story” by Slick Rick to grow with every rhyme.

For winter break's remaining days, I spent hours in my room analyzing every detail of Slick Rick’s twist on a not-so-child-friendly narrative about two kids robbing people. I envisioned the entire story. The boys running around the city. The cops. The train station. The smelly crackhead. The pregnant hostage. It wasn’t until I got older that I really understood what was happening.

“Children’s Story” is a reflection of the hardships Black inner city youth have and continue to battle with, simply to exist. I see these boys in my family. I see these boys in my friends. I see these boys in every Black person trying to function within a system that was never set up for them to win. I see these Boys in every Black person lacking the fundamental necessities and guidance to live a life like their white peers. The lyrics positioned the harsh realities of being young, poor and black in the city over an upbeat tempo that shifts the feeling of the song into a frenzy and pleasure. The two contrasting emotions ultimately produced one legendary song.

With the absence of a hook, a bridge and an unwavering tone, “Children’s Story” remains my childhood nostalgia and the reason I became the Hip-Hop head I am today. In 2018 that song evokes the same exact feeling it did when I first heard it years ago. That alone proves that Hip-Hop is the one element of music that I will never outgrow, forget or disconnect from.

‘1999’ to Infinity: How Joey Bada$$ Put Me On

by Anijah Boyd

As a child I would fashion dresses and wigs out of pillowcases at the approval of my grandmother. The makeshift clothing served as my wardrobe for countertop performances, where I would dance to the sounds of Earth, Wind & Fire, The Isley Brothers, Bobby Womack and more as my grandmother cleaned our home. Growing up much of my time was spent with her while my mother worked to provide a better life for me than She had envisioned for herself. As a result, my musical knowledge was confined to classic soul and R&B artists like Curtis Mayfield, The Gap Band, G.Q., Bobby Womack, Marvin Gaye, DeBarge and many more. And though these artists influenced it through melodies, harmonies and samples, Hip-Hop wouldn’t appear on my radar until many years later-2012 to be exact.

It was that year when “Righteous Mind$” by Joey Bada$$ slid across my Twitter timeline. The cover intrigued me so I listened, and after diving into “Snake$” and then 1999 in its entirety I knew one thing: boom bap made my heart skip a beat.

Joey was unlike any artist I had heard before, and even more unlike any rapper at the time. His beats were reminiscent of the drums and hard-hitting snares that defined the East Coast in the 1990s. His lyrics were original and versatile. Few at his age rivaled his respect and passion for the genre. And, let’s be honest, hardly anyone else was freestyling over Dilla beats.

Joey Bada$$ was authentic, unique, and my introduction to Hip-Hop. His work-coupled with that of his fellow Pro Era members-provided me with the one thing humans desire most in a state of sadness or sorrow: comfort. 

I remember sitting on the side of my bed bawling as Capital STEEZ’s “Infinity and Beyond” and “HYPE Beast” played in the background. But it was “Wave$” that made my connection to Joey Bada$$ stronger.

My mom was working a 9-5. Our landlord was fed up. And I too, prayed to Allah. Through the music I felt supported, because everyone needs a place where his or her struggles are affirmed. Where they’re guided to familiarity when they feel lost in the world around them. Where they’re consoled when they feel alone. For me, every time, Hip-Hop was there.

Once I learned that Hip-Hop was my missing peace, I dug into the whole Beast Coast movement and other New York artists like Bishop Nehru and Ken Rebel, the sounds of J Dilla, MF DOOM, Lord Finesse, and the music of A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, and Souls of Mischief. I owe a lot of my own knowledge to Joey Bada$$ and my discovery of his artistry, so much that I often feel like I got an introduction just as special as the people who were with DJ Kool Herc back in ‘73. 

Thanks to Joey I discovered a genre that gives a voice to the otherwise voiceless. To Hip-Hop, I am forever in debt for giving me the courage to use my voice and reminding me that I’m not alone. And, if I ever lose focus or become unsure about where to go next, I’m comforted when I hear Joey Bada$$ say: 

“Since ’95, mama been workin’ 9-5…”

Missy Elliott & Mumbo Sauce: A Love Letter To Hip-Hop

by Fullamusu Bangura

If I had to categorize Hip-Hop as a season, it would be summertime in DC. Breezy 8-counts stick to skin like humid air, enough to hug someone without feelings of suffocation. Ease and comfort soak my memories when I recall listening to Junior Mafia on my godsister’s radio or sneakily watching Hype Williams’ music videos at home as a child. If my love for Hip-Hop was a city, it would be Washington, D.C., a geography of imperfect neighborhoods meeting in the center to build something resembling a home.

Recounting my Hip-Hop love story feels incomplete without mentioning the architect: summer camp at Martha’s Table. For most DC residents Martha’s Table is a soup kitchen, but unbeknownst to many the organization hosted a yearly summer camp for young people across the city with limited access to more expensive programming. Many memories were created in that tiny, yellow brick building, but most of the sunshine came from our white van adventures. Whether it was our millionth trip to Banneker’s pool or a scavenger hunt throughout the city, each second in the van was its own moment of magic, set to a 92.3 soundtrack.

There were trips where my friends and I, crowded in the back of the van would carefully choreograph moves to Juvenile’s “Slow Motion,” a never ending battle of body against speed bumps. There were instances when we channeled our deepest guttural voices to become Ja Rule and hyped up the boys who dared to attempt rapping with the skill and speed of Twista. Most certain were the moments when Missy Elliott inevitably crept her way onto the stereo. I can’t explain it, but the combination of summertime weather, the security of close friends, and Missy Elliott transformed me into into an entirely different person.

Young Fullamusu was a relatively quiet child but found a home in the mystical energy of a Missy & Timbaland production. One loud image in my memory is witnessing a counselor hear the intro to “Work It,” impulsively pulling into the nearest parking lot, and blasting the song through the van’s speakers while we all put it down, flipped it and reversed it in celebration. These are the moments that shaped me and remind me what freedom through Hip-Hop looks like.

For a younger me, Hip-Hop was the freedom I recognized within myself but could never quite access. As a child of West African immigrants, limitations were a form of protection for my family. A father plagued by images of drug use and violence in the media placed the blame on Hip-Hop, which resulted in household bans on BET and the genre in general. Familial expectations of a firstborn daughter to attain the unthinkable for African immigrants, along with obligations to care for a young brother as the family crumbled placed me in a box that at times felt unescapable. Summertime in DC shifted these realities for me.

In that white van, I was slick-tongued and animated, slipping into my rap personas with ease, mouthing lyrics I dared not say in front of strict parents. My engagement with Hip-Hop was far from embodying an alter ego; I felt like I was finally embracing a stifled self, one who held no hesitation when released.

My city has since changed. Martha’s Table, once sharing a street corner with an alcoholic rehabilitation center is now choked between several upscale boutiques. The memories built here, however, are indestructible flickers of light illuminating my former home and my current reality.