it's been a bit of a minute.
not quite sure where this one's going. read against your own will.
The Market Place in asheville is a good spot to sit and contemplate. yet another gem.
underneath the voice of sam cooke peeling through speakers, conversations circulate.
a man- the color of bright pink sand says Jimi hendrix's sound is dynamic, pulsating with a social commentary in the chords of his guitar. and i'm listening, loving it- trying to keep my eyes steady and stoic as a fly on the wall, but I'm caught. we exchange smiles that hang on the edge of words, but smiles is all.
i sip a jalisco: tequila, chilli powder, syrup, and some other shit. it's pretty wonderful. a beer next to my tequila awaits me. everyone has been talking about this greenman esb and i'm ready to talk about it too. i'll sip it with the critical lens if a certified beer snob.
the woman next to him, his wife-friend, listens halfway. seems she doesn't know much about jimi and neither do i; although, i rock my purple haze t-shirt like jay rocks his che. I sit back and learn.
the ending to drake and swizz beats's fancy is in one ear bud almost falling out of my ear- the best part. I wish it were the instrumental. sometimes rap ruins a good track, as does the radio. just as talking during sex can ruin the mood. although, i do love his whisper to the ladies: go cinderella...
i've yet to find a person to speak to me the way music does and I don't think i ever will. don't really think it's meant to be that way.
the clouds are indecisive with the rain. it putters and pouts; it's the rain that constantly paints new jersey days. in decoded jay says we all may be walking different paths, but the same skies hover, the same streets give road to our feet, the same graffiti paints our backdrop. the setting can be a tricky constant.
in class, we did a fishbowl activity that loosed this very idea from my skin (thanks sonia). two students sat in the middle of a circle as the rest of the class watched them read a text- the text being photos. and that's the thing about objectives and what students will be able to learn. it's not always the intent of the teacher. it's not always about the author's intent. I watched classmates read photos of little black boys in the arms of white men; david Beckham spread eagle on Egyptian cotton; black boys with bruised and battered faces; the world gripped by two hands.
and i listened to how they read a text. the same text that projected in front of me? is jay right? were we seeing the same graffiti splashed wall? I saw how we bring our personal experiences, our memories, our worlds, our own texts to a reading. which, in many ways we already know. i saw how the interpretation of a text is often more important than the text itself. one's reading of a text reveals deeper insight into the reader and how his perceptions are connected to larger realms of seeing and perceiving. watching it manifest in very real ways in class was scary and exciting. perceptions and identity are inherently linked.
(added) i was provokingly intrigued by those loud things unsaid. although we can't always articulate or even dare to put words in mouths, i watched a silent space emerge-a discourse on the things which we do not speak- at least in mixed company and sure as hell not in a fishbowl. but i learned. willful forgetting is often predicated on social and political implications of silence. we dare not say we think the black man with the battered face deserved it because he is a gang member- or do we? we dare not say the little black boy in the arms of the white firefighter is rescuing a subaltern identity. we dare not say david beckham is sexy if we are a man- or do we dare? doesn't that pronounce a sense of security in our masculinity as it stands? can't killa cam wear pink and get that pussy? (edging besides the point I know). regardless, something held the silences. something presumed among the group. or was it? i felt it in our laughter and in our furtive glances at one another.
the silence in that activity enlightened me. we fold tape over our own mouths, but i would argue something hands us this tape. something makes us want to shut it up- don't be heard, don't voice, don't stir. and the tape goes over mouths outside fishbowls and classroom walls. we attempt to do something Zelizer calls "willfully forgetting." but this word "forget" needs tending. i can't rest there, but I need to- for now.
*now that i've edited this, this last piece doesn't seem to fit- mmm...o well).
when we watched brown sugar, our professor told us to look beyond the love story, but sometimes it is about the love story. sometimes it's okay to look there and see it. sometimes it is a little mushy... a little murky.
because I feel like sid. and i am in love with this thing called hip hop. ricky ross now in the headphones.
pandemonium.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Inspiration in Pieces and Parts
I need a lamp in this room and a better chair.
ok...Check for complaints out the way.
There's am imminent thunderstorm and all I can do is continue to will it on. I've got the best seat in the house for it. I want to write a poem today, but we all know it just don't work that way- or does it?.. and here comes the first crack of thunder.
There is a picture of Lauryn Hill (below) that i absolutely love. It's a black and white. She's looking in the mirror, almost as if she is simultaneously checking her make-up and dreaming up a "thesis/ [and]well written pieces" ("Final Hour"; Miseducation of Lauryn Hill). i think the picture is from her inside album flap. It's nostalgic and regal. It's powerful, yet serene. i can remember unwrapping the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill as an excited twelve year old- it was my first CD, and the first CD i had ever purchased with my own money. i used to close my eyes in my room with my bigass headphones as i listened to her velvet voice rap harder than dudes and sing melodies wrapped in the same rough blanket as Nina Simone. This picture makes me dream of my natural mother and about mothers. It is bound up, for me, with memory and imagination. . .
In an essay titled, The Site of Memory, Toni Morrison discusses the impact of memory on her fiction writing. She expounds on the notion that "no matter how 'fictional' the account of these writers, or how much it was a product of invention, the act of imagination is bound up with memory" (198). I've been thinking about memory as it relates to our perception of ourselves, and as it conducts itself as a live, walking body in our daily narratives and in our interactions with others. What is real? Especially when it comes to identity formation.
I think about the memory I have of my biological or "natural" mother as she puts it in the nameless letter I have from her-the only tangible thing I do have from her besides dna ( is dna tangible?). I also use the word memory as an image or idea rather than memory in the sense of recollection. Someone in class asked how can you have a connection to something that you never experienced first-hand? She was referencing her white students who love hip hop, which is an interesting and somewhat naive question that fails to see the complexity and power of connection. Why do I love Junot Diaz- I have never been to the Dominican Republic? Why do I love Marvin Gaye- I am certainly not a "Troubled Man"? The answer is not simple, but to answer it simply - our connections are bound up with memory.We find a connection and relate along different levels. Art, literature, and multiple stimuli work in many ways off of memory. Both conscious and unconscious, both willed and unwilled. And if memory and imagination are linked, I would go further to argue identity is predicated on this idea.
To say you know something comes with a complex bag of definitions. What does it actually mean to know? How can I take ownership of a mother I have never actually met ("met" as in the fixed terms of hand-shaking and "nice to meet you's"), but I would argue I have met her. It happens randomly on random days. I may be alone or with people and feel an instinct, a certain wrinkle in my smile, a new development in my voice, that I just know she has too. Morrison would say (at least as a writer of fiction), "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was-that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" (Thought, Memory, Creation, and Writing; 1984 p.385). I guess I am caught up in both the research and the aspect of memory.
Much like recalling upon the fuzzy pieces or bits of a dream and attempting to string them into a narrative for others, we find ourselves adjusting to memory in the same way. It doesn't also fit neatly into beginning, middle, end, with neat character line-ups and plot development. It actually works against this idea of sequencing and order. Yet, it is still our inclination to make it do so. Memory works in the same vein. We see this fragmented narrative in Beloved, where the reader must rely on the disjointed memories of others, drinking it up, much like Beloved does with Denver's stories, to subsist or at least to remain within the story.
Who am I if I don't know my mother and have to rely on these fragmented pieces of a story? A 25 year old letter addressed "My Dearest Child" and signed "Your Natural Mother." Nameless, but identifiable health records. 2 months worth of journaling about me- a baby named "Rosa" from a Philadelphia foster care home.
yet, it is these pieces from which I begin to create the "parts" of a story, of an identity. It is not always a conscious creation- it hardly ever is. But, it is one that sits on, in, and under the building blocks of pieced memories.
ok...Check for complaints out the way.
There's am imminent thunderstorm and all I can do is continue to will it on. I've got the best seat in the house for it. I want to write a poem today, but we all know it just don't work that way- or does it?.. and here comes the first crack of thunder.
There is a picture of Lauryn Hill (below) that i absolutely love. It's a black and white. She's looking in the mirror, almost as if she is simultaneously checking her make-up and dreaming up a "thesis/ [and]well written pieces" ("Final Hour"; Miseducation of Lauryn Hill). i think the picture is from her inside album flap. It's nostalgic and regal. It's powerful, yet serene. i can remember unwrapping the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill as an excited twelve year old- it was my first CD, and the first CD i had ever purchased with my own money. i used to close my eyes in my room with my bigass headphones as i listened to her velvet voice rap harder than dudes and sing melodies wrapped in the same rough blanket as Nina Simone. This picture makes me dream of my natural mother and about mothers. It is bound up, for me, with memory and imagination. . .
In an essay titled, The Site of Memory, Toni Morrison discusses the impact of memory on her fiction writing. She expounds on the notion that "no matter how 'fictional' the account of these writers, or how much it was a product of invention, the act of imagination is bound up with memory" (198). I've been thinking about memory as it relates to our perception of ourselves, and as it conducts itself as a live, walking body in our daily narratives and in our interactions with others. What is real? Especially when it comes to identity formation.
I think about the memory I have of my biological or "natural" mother as she puts it in the nameless letter I have from her-the only tangible thing I do have from her besides dna ( is dna tangible?). I also use the word memory as an image or idea rather than memory in the sense of recollection. Someone in class asked how can you have a connection to something that you never experienced first-hand? She was referencing her white students who love hip hop, which is an interesting and somewhat naive question that fails to see the complexity and power of connection. Why do I love Junot Diaz- I have never been to the Dominican Republic? Why do I love Marvin Gaye- I am certainly not a "Troubled Man"? The answer is not simple, but to answer it simply - our connections are bound up with memory.We find a connection and relate along different levels. Art, literature, and multiple stimuli work in many ways off of memory. Both conscious and unconscious, both willed and unwilled. And if memory and imagination are linked, I would go further to argue identity is predicated on this idea.
To say you know something comes with a complex bag of definitions. What does it actually mean to know? How can I take ownership of a mother I have never actually met ("met" as in the fixed terms of hand-shaking and "nice to meet you's"), but I would argue I have met her. It happens randomly on random days. I may be alone or with people and feel an instinct, a certain wrinkle in my smile, a new development in my voice, that I just know she has too. Morrison would say (at least as a writer of fiction), "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was-that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" (Thought, Memory, Creation, and Writing; 1984 p.385). I guess I am caught up in both the research and the aspect of memory.
Much like recalling upon the fuzzy pieces or bits of a dream and attempting to string them into a narrative for others, we find ourselves adjusting to memory in the same way. It doesn't also fit neatly into beginning, middle, end, with neat character line-ups and plot development. It actually works against this idea of sequencing and order. Yet, it is still our inclination to make it do so. Memory works in the same vein. We see this fragmented narrative in Beloved, where the reader must rely on the disjointed memories of others, drinking it up, much like Beloved does with Denver's stories, to subsist or at least to remain within the story.
Who am I if I don't know my mother and have to rely on these fragmented pieces of a story? A 25 year old letter addressed "My Dearest Child" and signed "Your Natural Mother." Nameless, but identifiable health records. 2 months worth of journaling about me- a baby named "Rosa" from a Philadelphia foster care home.
yet, it is these pieces from which I begin to create the "parts" of a story, of an identity. It is not always a conscious creation- it hardly ever is. But, it is one that sits on, in, and under the building blocks of pieced memories.
As I have begun the "official" search for my biological mother, the interplay of emotions is often palpable, but rarely explicable- at least with the words I have. It's a push pull of the sort where I continuously ask myself are you sure you're ready? What will you do when you find her? What will you do if you don't? And still, outside my head, there are the questions from others. The private investigator: what do you know? The other adopted colleagues who have decided not to search for their own: Why now? How? What if...?
Still, I want the journey to establish new memories, despite the pandora's box of outcomes that await.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Summer Time Teacher
Just reread some old blogs to reacquaint myself with myself...
I am not particularly inspired by anything, except maybe this new imac- cheese smile.
I'm in Asheville, North Carolina for the summer...learning in class and through the delightful individuals I have met on this journey.
Asheville, NC is a town seeping with a historical richness. It's a history that's multilayered- one that the passer-through, or even the weekend-stayer might miss. We've been on walking tours and sat on panels that reveal a dark history the beautiful mountain town does not readily reveal. I've marveled in the local art shops, the mom and pop bookstores, and draped myself in the blue mountain landscape. Yet there is a peculiar touch pulling at my delight. My class has illuminated the corner of a more private history, drenched in the very strange syrup our nation was founded- you know the syrup Im talkin about. It is a history of slavery, degradation, segregation, and misrepresentation.
My classes have me thinking a lot- duh, right? So much so that I find myself talking a lot- half of the time about nothing and the other half about everything; there's never much semblance.
I've been thinking a great deal about memory and literacy- not in a related sense, but as individual entities. Memory as a type of rhetoric, as a landscape, as a discourse. In my class we are reading African American lit against this idea of memory (when does memory become collective? how do we measure memory against history? what is the space between history and memory? what is truth? when is memory reliable? how do we account for sites of memory? whose memories have more value than others?) questions I've only begun to scratch at.
In my Hip Hop class, we are studying the myriad facets of Hip Hop and Hip Hop culture. Essentially, we are making a case for it within the classroom as critical text. (Right up my alley, I know.) I'm intrigued by the concept of multi-modal literacies and how to incorporate them more deliberately into my classroom. I am also engaged with the political work, as Kirkland, my professor always terms it, that Hip Hop is up to and how ignoring it, is furthering a white patriarchal divide.
Despite the nebulous haze I am left with after class, after the readings, after the convos, I am left with ideas surrounding my own experience- my own story. How are our stories predicated on memory and how does our voicing of them offer validity? A concept I will revisit. My brain hurts.
The best bookstore I ever found! It's a wine bar, coffee shop, and champagne bar. This is what I want my house to look like.
One of the views from the highway. I almost crashed taking this...
I thought this was a statue for a week. It was only until I saw someone put a dollar in her basket that I saw her move. She's sooo good. They say she makes 80 bucks a day. hmm...can I stand still?
On the tour, we walked past many places that were demolished during the Urban Renewal Project (1950s-1970s), one of the largest Urban Renwals in the southeastern region. Thousands of people, predominately African Americans, lost their homes; the effect for many was devastating. This is one of the buildings not yet "developed".
This a mural on the side of the same building- freshly painted! I think it is about a week old.
Ok, so this is a movie theatre that shows independent movies-it's not your Lowe's or Regal Theatre. It's a small, local stop. But...
There were two entrances to the movie theatre: one "for whites only," the main one, and this one "for colored's only." It's still there, and if we hadn't been on the tour with a tour-guide who told us this, we might have never known. hmm... what's goin on here?
I am not particularly inspired by anything, except maybe this new imac- cheese smile.
I'm in Asheville, North Carolina for the summer...learning in class and through the delightful individuals I have met on this journey.
Asheville, NC is a town seeping with a historical richness. It's a history that's multilayered- one that the passer-through, or even the weekend-stayer might miss. We've been on walking tours and sat on panels that reveal a dark history the beautiful mountain town does not readily reveal. I've marveled in the local art shops, the mom and pop bookstores, and draped myself in the blue mountain landscape. Yet there is a peculiar touch pulling at my delight. My class has illuminated the corner of a more private history, drenched in the very strange syrup our nation was founded- you know the syrup Im talkin about. It is a history of slavery, degradation, segregation, and misrepresentation.
My classes have me thinking a lot- duh, right? So much so that I find myself talking a lot- half of the time about nothing and the other half about everything; there's never much semblance.
I've been thinking a great deal about memory and literacy- not in a related sense, but as individual entities. Memory as a type of rhetoric, as a landscape, as a discourse. In my class we are reading African American lit against this idea of memory (when does memory become collective? how do we measure memory against history? what is the space between history and memory? what is truth? when is memory reliable? how do we account for sites of memory? whose memories have more value than others?) questions I've only begun to scratch at.
In my Hip Hop class, we are studying the myriad facets of Hip Hop and Hip Hop culture. Essentially, we are making a case for it within the classroom as critical text. (Right up my alley, I know.) I'm intrigued by the concept of multi-modal literacies and how to incorporate them more deliberately into my classroom. I am also engaged with the political work, as Kirkland, my professor always terms it, that Hip Hop is up to and how ignoring it, is furthering a white patriarchal divide.
Despite the nebulous haze I am left with after class, after the readings, after the convos, I am left with ideas surrounding my own experience- my own story. How are our stories predicated on memory and how does our voicing of them offer validity? A concept I will revisit. My brain hurts.
For now, I have some pictures of my trip.
Yay pictures! Here are some from my tour of Asheville and of my own tour (:
So, we went to 12 Bones- amazing, clog your arteries, but absolutely worth it food. It's where Obama goes when he comes to town! Here's the menya (menu).
Monday, April 25, 2011
Midday Snack
I realize now that jumping into an entry in the middle of the school day during a free period presents several issues:
One- the frequent interruptions. students, teachers, my own wandering brain.
Two- the fact that I should actually be doing work...
and I am done after number 2 because that issue encompasses them all.
I am inspired today by the idea of writing.
Around 4am, when I woke up this morning, I grabbed my pen and journal and took off. The plot of my stories lately have been somewhat marred by the level of detail I attribute to them. It's like my art teacher would always tell me: get the general outline and then add the detail. Yet, my stubborn ass is always married to the intricate details of things- so much so, that I lose sight of the picture. I am working on ameliorating this issue.
Today in class we are sharing our work.
Students have 10 minutes to write, which for them is like 2 hours, and then they will offer constructive criticism to each other. On the board are my instructions. Next to these instructions is a black and white photograph of a baboon. We can only see its eyes and half of its nose as it is peering into the immediate distance. Its expression is one of concern and I am struck with the idea of how human-like these creatures are. Not only in their appearance, but in their emotional capacity and their intellectual strength. Students may use this image as fuel for descriptive writing, but if they have a better image in their head, they can go for it. We have gone over the rules for how to criticize and how to receive criticism, both in relation to their own writing and general demeanor.
And yet, the interesting thing through it all, is how much I am learning. As readers, the students question the author's intent, the ambiguity of language, and sometimes the tone of the pieces. I am impressed by their level of analysis and the seeming depth of their pieces. Children are cesspools of imagination and learning how to pull it out has been a joy for me throughout this experience.
One- the frequent interruptions. students, teachers, my own wandering brain.
Two- the fact that I should actually be doing work...
and I am done after number 2 because that issue encompasses them all.
I am inspired today by the idea of writing.
Around 4am, when I woke up this morning, I grabbed my pen and journal and took off. The plot of my stories lately have been somewhat marred by the level of detail I attribute to them. It's like my art teacher would always tell me: get the general outline and then add the detail. Yet, my stubborn ass is always married to the intricate details of things- so much so, that I lose sight of the picture. I am working on ameliorating this issue.
Today in class we are sharing our work.
Students have 10 minutes to write, which for them is like 2 hours, and then they will offer constructive criticism to each other. On the board are my instructions. Next to these instructions is a black and white photograph of a baboon. We can only see its eyes and half of its nose as it is peering into the immediate distance. Its expression is one of concern and I am struck with the idea of how human-like these creatures are. Not only in their appearance, but in their emotional capacity and their intellectual strength. Students may use this image as fuel for descriptive writing, but if they have a better image in their head, they can go for it. We have gone over the rules for how to criticize and how to receive criticism, both in relation to their own writing and general demeanor.
And yet, the interesting thing through it all, is how much I am learning. As readers, the students question the author's intent, the ambiguity of language, and sometimes the tone of the pieces. I am impressed by their level of analysis and the seeming depth of their pieces. Children are cesspools of imagination and learning how to pull it out has been a joy for me throughout this experience.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Language of Poverty? or Poetry?
Before I begin, I must highly recommend this book!
Decoded, by Jay-Z
As an avid hip hop head and a reader of anything I can get my hands on- I give it 2 thumbs way up.
Read it for your own enlightenment or just for fun; if you love Jay, have your ipod ready to bump the songs as you read along with his analysis of his own lyrics. And, if you are a teacher, bring it into your classroom. Put it into a context- you will not disappoint.
Recently a colleague expressed her distaste with comments made by other teachers at an English Department meeting. I couldn't attend, but she filled me in during a quick lunch.
English Department meeting conversation went something like this:
"Our students' vocabulary isn't as good as it used to be," claims one teacher.
"It's all that darned hip-hop music," suggests another. "They listen to all those hip-hop dudes and it weakens their vocabulary."
"Ah, yes, it's the language of poverty seeping into our language," another quips.
They reach a consensus that " these hip-hop dudes" are responsible for this elusive "language of poverty" and the meeting progresses.
hmm... besides the inherent ignorance in the claims, I have other problems. The beauty of language, like any other aspect of culture, is that not only is it true to its environment, but it evolves. I feel as English teachers, we should all be in agreement on this notion. Zora Neal Hurston's language is riddled with colloquialisms and regional dialect that may be troubling for some readers, but overall add a richness and a sincerity- and isn't this one of the reasons why we love her so? Our beloved Shakespeare created thousands of new words- words that could have easily been pushed aside as doggerel, but we use them today. Some of his gifts were words like "dwindle," "frugal," gloomy," and "hurry".
Writers, which is what many of these influential "hip-hop dudes" are, partake in the creation and evolution of our language, whether stiff teachers like it or not, and our students pick up on it simply by being products of our environment. It is the writer's job to report, to record, to express. There is a value in this idea before we even consider the content. To ignore it, to snub it, or to shake a dismissive hand its way is the equivalent of living on an island and clipping the ropes of your only boat; eventually, your resources will dwindle and you'll die. Our existence and our intellectual growth is predicated not only on our ability to adapt, but also on our ability to work and move in this world together.
I'm afraid that meeting was missing an important voice- a voice that is often silenced in academia. The language of hip-hop is one that teachers, especially English teachers, cannot push aside. The language of hip-hop is singularly one of the most influential languages of our time. The language of hip-hop helped define a generation, helped create a voice for a large group of the voiceless, and began carving the path for a necessary untold American story. For Jay-Z it's the voice of the hustler, but I see it as the voice of a large portion black America. I view many hip-hop artists as poets, and to ignore them in schools would be to ignore a poetic movement.
I'd say it's time for everyone else to catch up. It's not a weakening of vocabulary that's the problem, it's our inability, in academia, to keep up with the times.
I think Jay-Z's interview at the NY Public Library demonstrates this friction of different worlds rubbing against each other, which is what my Department meeting showed as well. As Jay-Z sits between Cornell West and Paul Holdengräber, we can see this clearly. Both Jay and Holdengräber work to understand each other with a gentle acknowledgement of their own ignorance and appreciation of their differences-
perhaps not a bad way to look at "hip-hop" language in school.
Watch this interview. Read the book.
It's important; it says more in words and in picture than I could ever say.
Decoded, by Jay-Z
As an avid hip hop head and a reader of anything I can get my hands on- I give it 2 thumbs way up.
Read it for your own enlightenment or just for fun; if you love Jay, have your ipod ready to bump the songs as you read along with his analysis of his own lyrics. And, if you are a teacher, bring it into your classroom. Put it into a context- you will not disappoint.
Recently a colleague expressed her distaste with comments made by other teachers at an English Department meeting. I couldn't attend, but she filled me in during a quick lunch.
English Department meeting conversation went something like this:
"Our students' vocabulary isn't as good as it used to be," claims one teacher.
"It's all that darned hip-hop music," suggests another. "They listen to all those hip-hop dudes and it weakens their vocabulary."
"Ah, yes, it's the language of poverty seeping into our language," another quips.
They reach a consensus that " these hip-hop dudes" are responsible for this elusive "language of poverty" and the meeting progresses.
hmm... besides the inherent ignorance in the claims, I have other problems. The beauty of language, like any other aspect of culture, is that not only is it true to its environment, but it evolves. I feel as English teachers, we should all be in agreement on this notion. Zora Neal Hurston's language is riddled with colloquialisms and regional dialect that may be troubling for some readers, but overall add a richness and a sincerity- and isn't this one of the reasons why we love her so? Our beloved Shakespeare created thousands of new words- words that could have easily been pushed aside as doggerel, but we use them today. Some of his gifts were words like "dwindle," "frugal," gloomy," and "hurry".
Writers, which is what many of these influential "hip-hop dudes" are, partake in the creation and evolution of our language, whether stiff teachers like it or not, and our students pick up on it simply by being products of our environment. It is the writer's job to report, to record, to express. There is a value in this idea before we even consider the content. To ignore it, to snub it, or to shake a dismissive hand its way is the equivalent of living on an island and clipping the ropes of your only boat; eventually, your resources will dwindle and you'll die. Our existence and our intellectual growth is predicated not only on our ability to adapt, but also on our ability to work and move in this world together.
I'm afraid that meeting was missing an important voice- a voice that is often silenced in academia. The language of hip-hop is one that teachers, especially English teachers, cannot push aside. The language of hip-hop is singularly one of the most influential languages of our time. The language of hip-hop helped define a generation, helped create a voice for a large group of the voiceless, and began carving the path for a necessary untold American story. For Jay-Z it's the voice of the hustler, but I see it as the voice of a large portion black America. I view many hip-hop artists as poets, and to ignore them in schools would be to ignore a poetic movement.
I'd say it's time for everyone else to catch up. It's not a weakening of vocabulary that's the problem, it's our inability, in academia, to keep up with the times.
I think Jay-Z's interview at the NY Public Library demonstrates this friction of different worlds rubbing against each other, which is what my Department meeting showed as well. As Jay-Z sits between Cornell West and Paul Holdengräber, we can see this clearly. Both Jay and Holdengräber work to understand each other with a gentle acknowledgement of their own ignorance and appreciation of their differences-
perhaps not a bad way to look at "hip-hop" language in school.
Watch this interview. Read the book.
It's important; it says more in words and in picture than I could ever say.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Feed Yourself
Natural. Raw. Real.
I am inspired today. I think the less words the better. Art like this is an exclamation point.
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