Bringing It Down From the Ivory Tower: Teaching With Hip Hop

I was struck by a comment I once heard from a pre-service teacher woman, and I will not even describe her because I think she expressed an almost universal sentiment.

In her lesson demo she told a group of English teachers that she "used British hip hop artist M.I.A.'s song lyrics to draw her students in, that they be more willing to learn about 'real' poetry." I raised my eyebrows and said nothing--knowing full well how much I disagreed with her position. I imagined what she meant by “real” poetry.

I thought about poets I loved: Dickinson, Whitman, Frost. I figured those three among the poets she counted as producing “real” poetry, poetry worthy of study and canonization. In those few seconds it took to register her comment then become annoyed by it, I also began to wonder why she discounted MIA's work as not “real?” I wondered why she didn't know better. I concluded that she had separated hip hop from the poetic tradition either because she didn't know enough about poetry to make a comprehensive assessment or because she believed class, race, or nationality actually qualified one genre of poetry as “real” and another as a pretender. You see, MIA is a working-class female Bangladeshi Brit rapper. And I wanted to talk with this teacher to share that I have not ever read poetry from any author, any period, or any culture that did not match in complexity, creativity, technique and beauty with a number of old school and modern day hip hop artists, including MIA.

I wanted to say, like we often do after these opportune times, that if a teacher's goal is to connect, then build upon students' prior cultural knowledge and transfer that into meaningful new academic knowledge, then teachers could certainly use the poetry students already know. They already know how to analyze hip hop—without necessarily even reading the lyrics. If they can do that, why not take hip hop song lyrics, engage students with its musicality and content, then show students how similar what they already know at home is to what they need to know in school? This is culturally responsive pedagogy. Culturally responsive pedagogy is a valuable tool for any classroom:

The validation, information, and pride it generates are both psychologically and intellectually liberating" (35). This freedom results in improved achievement of many kinds, including increased concentration on academic learning tasks. Other improved achievements can include: clear and insightful thinking; more caring, concerned, and humane interpersonal skills; better understanding of interconnections among individual, local, national, ethnic, global, and human identities; and acceptance of knowledge as something to be continuously shared, critiqued, revised, and renewed. (Chapman, 1994; M. Foster, 1995; Hollins, 1996; Hollins, King, & Hayman, 1994; Ladson-Billings, 1992, 1994, 1995a and 1995b; Lee, 1993;  Lee & Slaughter- Defoe, 1995)

Now, I of course, have not read every bit of canonical poetry, nor I have heard every hip hop song, but hear me out. I have read and studied an enormous amount of literature, have taught critical reading and writing, have written several genres of literature, including poetry and have recognized for some time hip hop's poetic value. Hip hop is poetry--some good and some bad, some mediocre, and some phenomenal. I offer that when we understand that in academia, the "real" shall meld with the real and students will have access to what many of them find relevant and non-exclusionary. Students can find genuine validation within a classroom, rather than a condescending teacher trying to reeaachhh them through what they know in order to eventually denigrate it. Students, especially students coming from outside the dominant culture, appreciate correlative relationships; not hierarchies that have historically excluded what they value. And understanding some of the history and poetry of this music form might better equip teachers to use it in the classroom.

So let's get back to hip hop, and what it means to many of our students, and let's be honest, a whole generation of younger teachers who also grew up with the art form. So it means a great deal to us. From its inception in the late 70s we saw the music transform from simple, rhyme schemes of the eighties--predominately sounded off in a bubbly iambic pentameter--to more and more complex structures that fused word-sounded syncopation driven by the poets who created tone, mood, and the highs and lows and complications of narrative poetry through the use of a multiplicity of literary devices, devices many multiple subject and English teachers expect their students to recognize, analyze and use themselves.

You had early artists, influenced by Gil Scott Heron and The Last Poets, who took the art of the African American cultural elite to the streets of New York City. Eventually, and after a commercial surge, came artists like Grand Master Flash, whose "The Message" is now anthologized in Norton's African American Literature. Beside it you will find Public Enemy's "Don't Believe the Hype." Following in the tradition of Gil Scott Heron and The Last Poets, both songs represent a socially critical aspect of the music. That socially critical voice can be heard through a number of groups that emerged in the late eighties and early nineties: Eric B. and Rakim, Boogie Down Productions, Poor Righteous Teachers, The Jungle Brothers, Queen Latifah, DeLa Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubians, Bahamadia and many, many more. These artists were very well known within the culture, but were not necessarily megastars. They emerged as respected poets who could deliver their cerebral poetry over an appropriately funky breakbeat and move a crowd all night long. They were like the cool jazz players of an earlier generation, who riffed off of and alluded to each other's work and character, according to the tradition of what Skip Gates calls "The Signifying Monkey." The Signifying Monkey, or allusion, is the key to the music's continuity.

How does this work in a classroom? Well, I always try to introduce to English 9 students that when Maya Angelou chose the title, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she wanted not only to credit Paul Laurence Dunbar, because that's a line from his poem, “Sympathy.” I then ask them to draw correlations between his experience and hers as an African American. What do they have in common? Why did she choose to make this connection?

Usually, my more advanced students get that right away. But when I say, "You know how E40 uses the looped metaphor, 'We be to rap/what key be to lock.'”

They say, "Yea!" And then I explain that that was not his line—that he's referring to a line by Q-Tip of Tribe Called Quest: and that that line was also later used by Diggable Planets in the song, “Cool Like That.” So now the concept, application and usefulness of allusions become more clear to students who often have difficulty in understanding and internalizing this complex idea.

They build on the conversation, "Oh you mean like when Jay-Z says, 'All I need in this life of sin/is me and my girlfriend,' he's paying tribute to Tupac and trying to compare himself to him.'

They take over as I smile widely and say, "Yes! And why do you think he did that?” The allusions link together like the greased gears of a pressed lock. My work and theirs becomes so much more relevant and lively. They connect with a genre they once held at a distance as overly technical or foreign (the academic).

“Look at what I found Ms. Keeble!” One student shows me some writing technique Jay-Z uses in his song, “Minority Report” as we read and write creatively and critically about Hurricane Katrina. “I hadn't even noticed that, Omar Beautiful.” My students begin to integrate home and school. One they own; one they begin to own—quickly. Their sense of agency capitalizes.

And what does this have to do with that young teacher lady who said that she uses the hip hop lyrics to get to the "real" poetry?

Well, I think it's pretty clear. Our students have a wealth of knowledge that is genuinely creative, rooted in the majestic, and culturally relevant. They know the quality of poetic composition of artists like, Wale, Common, Talib Kwali, the Roots, J Cole, Lupe Fiacso, and I could go on. That composition consists of all the elements of what we call classical poetry, accepting that it is not written in sonnet form (alas)--but quite commonly a 32 bar pop song--that originated in the African American church. When will we give credit to an American classic creation and qualify it as a real and valuable tool in the teaching of our young people who are so completely able to immediately comprehend all its complex meanings? The failure to do so leaves our nation's students disconnected from the relevance of their own educations and power of their own art forms. Hip Hop, like jazz and rock and roll, is a genuine, although often disrespected true American art form that our students have known their entire lives. Educators and students might be better off learning something of it, and using it to connect our students to our goals.

Bringing It Down from the Ivory Tower: The Art of the Real

I was struck by a comment I once heard a young teacher woman, and I will not even describe her, because I think that hers is an almost universal sentiment, that she "used British hip hop artist M.I.A.'s song lyrics to draw her students in, that they be more willing to learn about 'real' poetry." I raised my eyebrows and said nothing--knowing full well how much I disagreed with her. Sometimes it's best to keep it shut and keep it copacetic. I love D. H. Lawrence's suggestion to, "be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot." I believe young Paris Hilton liked that one too--though context is everything. It's time for me to say something, however. Time to say exactly what I think about the "real" poetry. And I will say it generally because I think to go into it too much droning detail would be rather dull and overall pretty obnoxious.

Plainly, I have not ever read poetry from any author, any period, or any culture that did not match in complexity, creativity, technique and beauty with a number of modern day hip hop artists. Now, I of course have not read everything, but hear me out. Hip hop is poetry--some good and some bad, some mediocre, and some phenomenal. I offer that when we understand that in academia, the "real" shall meld with the real and students will have access to what many of them find relevant and non-exclusionary. Students can find genuine validation within a classroom, rather than a subconsciously condescending teacher trying to reeaachhh them.

Now let's get back to hip hop, and what it means to many of our students, and let's be honest, a whole generation of younger teachers who also grew up with the art form. So it means a great deal to us. We saw the music transform from pretty simple, rhyme schemes of the eighties--predominately sounded off in a bubbly iambic pentameter--to more and more complex structures that fused word-sounded syncopation driven by the poets who created tone, mood, and all the qualities of narrative poetry through the use of a multiplicity of literary devices.

You had early artists, influenced by Gil Scott Heron and The Last Poets, who took the art of the African American cultural elite to the streets of New York City. Eventually, and after a commercial surge, came artists like Grand Master Flash, whose "The Message" is now anthologized in Norton's African American Literature. Beside it you will find Public Enemy's "Don't Believe the Hype." Following in the tradition of Gil Scott Heron and The Last Poets, both songs represent a socially critical aspect of the music. That socially critical voice can be heard through a number of groups that emerged in the late eighties and early nineties: Eric B. and Rakim, Boogie Down Productions, Poor Righteous Teachers, The Jungle Brothers, Queen Latifah, DeLa Soul, A Tribe Called Quest, Brand Nubians and many, many more. These artists were very well known within the culture, but were not necessarily megastars. They were well respected poets who could deliver their cerebral poetry over an appropriately funky breakbeat and move a crowd all night long. They were like the cool jazz players of an earlier generation, who riffed and alluded to each other's work and character, according to the tradition of what Skip Gates calls "The Signifying Monkey." The Signifying Monkey, or allusion, is the key to the music's continuity.

What difference does it make? Well, I always try to explain to English 9 students that when Maya Angelou chose the title, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she wanted to not only credit Paul Laurence Dunbar, but also draw correlations between his experience and hers. Usually my more advanced students get that right away. But when I say, "You know how E40 uses the looped metaphor, 'We be to rap/what key be to lock.' " They say, "Yea!" And then I explain that that was not his line--that he's referring to a line by Q Tip, and that it was later used by Diggable Planets in "The Return of Slick."

They say, "Oh you mean like when Jay-Z says, 'All I need in this life of sin/is me and my girlfriend," he's paying tribute to Tupac and trying to compare himself to him.' " I smile widely and say, "Yea! And why do you think he did that? The concept links together like the greased gears of a pressed lock. My work and theirs becomes so much more relevant and lively. They identify a genre they once held at a distance as overly academic or foreign as one they have owned and sought engagement in their own homes and cars, their entire lives.  And what does this have to do with that young teacher lady who said that she uses the hip hop lyrics to get to the "real" poetry?

Well, I think it's pretty clear. Our students have a wealth of knowledge that is genuinely creative, rooted in the majestic, and culturally relevant. They know the quality of poetic composition of artists like, Walla, Common, Talib Kwali, the Roots, Hova, Weezy, and I could go on. That composition consists of all the elements of what we call classical poetry, accepting that it is not written in sonnet form (alas)--but quite commonly a 32 bar pop song--that originated in the African American church.  When will we give credit to an American classic creation and qualify it as a real and valuable tool in the teaching of our young people who are so completely able to immediately comprehend all its complex meanings? The failure to do so leaves our nation's students disconnected from the relevance of their own educations and power of their own art forms.  Hip Hop is one example of a genuine, although often disrespected true American art form that our students have known their entire lives.  Educators and students might be better off learning it, and using it.

Why We Teach

     In the middle of a school year, 'round about February 15th, after winter break, but before spring break, about the time when all energy and creative thought has been mangled by exhaustion, I question why I teach.
     At the end of summer, this is never a question. Oh! It is like a miracle in spiritually highly motivated communion with students, ideas, and comrades. By the end of summer, I've let go of missing my last set of students (who I always think are brilliant; seriously) and am ready to meet some new young people, who I hope by the end will consider themselves brilliant and maybe even friends. At the end of summer, I am committed to potential exhaustion, potential martyrdom, for the sake of perpetuating the idea of perpetuating ideas. I am ready. But by mid-February, I am ready to quit: just about done with bureaucrats, and budgets, and "no"s, and test scores. Then, I must recall what I remember someone saying, "Just do what you love to do and do it with passion, and you will feel full and purposeful." I always remind myself of the why during these times. That why counters the fact that I have forgotten what drove me into high school classrooms in the first place. I remember to keep it moving, the "it" being me, because this is what I was taught to do. Every second, minute, hour, day, month, etc. of my upbringing I was taught to work, and work tirelessly, for something better.
     I was taught to always try to do what I can to help someone--especially my brothers and sisters: often penniless, often hungry, often undereducated, often without a path out of the prisons erected so long ago-- prisons that still work to bar so many of us from the explosive and elevating bliss of genuine freedom.
My mother taught me this. My grandmother taught me this. My father taught me this. So did my uncles and aunts and great-aunts and great uncles and so did my teachers. I recall this idea with some effort in February--it keeps me keeping on. This past winter, these ideas came to me much more readily, having experienced during the previous August, the kind of catastrophe which demands absolute recognition of a power greater than onesself--which delivers us, in spite of our own failures of spirit.
     It happened like this: my 15 year old, who I still consider my baby, because she is my baby, wanted to stop at the gas station to get a cold drink after her ballet class. The class was held in a hot box studio on the edge of South Hayward, California. Now Hayward is a very working class city; that keeps it from becoming completely suburban. The city struggles with this identity, because it is so close to Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco, that one would expect it to be a semi-sophisticated city. Of which it is--semi-sophisticated. The city has its share of gang and drug activity. Property crime is not unusual. But one does not necessarily expect it.
     As soon as my daughter and I left the studio, we pulled over at the closest gas station and I gave my my little one, who was still in her ballet attire, my credit card. I parked right in front of the front door. It was an unusual August night because as the partially cloudy skies began to dim the heat of the day, they released tiny sprinkles into the settling evening. It never rains in the Bay in August.
     I realized at some point that my daughter was taking too long in the store, so I opened my car door and walked in to help her. She had apparently thought my credit card was my ATM card and tried to enter a PIN number. It didn't work and the clerk, a slender cigarette orange, middle-aged white man, smiled and said it didn't work.
"Here, just use this," and handed him my ATM card.
"Oh, that outta do it." And that was it.
"Thank you," smiled, and we both walked out the door. I got in the driver's seat. She got in the passenger's seat.
     As soon as she closed the door I looked at her and told her to put on her seat belt. As I looked at her, from over her shoulder, I saw two young men. I assumed they were young because of their slender frames and purposeful gait. They wore black hoodies as they scrambled toward my car. They both had their hoods tightened around their heads and wore sunglasses. They also had on black gloves, which I noticed because they were cinched around their wrists. I saw this and thought, "Oh those are cute gloves." I thought the hoods made sense because it was sprinkling. Then the pace and aggression of their gaits registered with me, and in a voice that hearkened all the way back to the Arkansas of my birth I said aloud, "These _______ look like they about to rob somebody." As I said that, my daughter responed, because simultaneously, the young man in the front pulled out from his waistband the most menacing huge steel-plated handgun I had ever seen, "They are."
     They sharply turned the corner away from us and rushed into the store. The evening was absolutely silent. I said, "Oh my God," as I turned the ignition key. We heard a--Bang! and a man sprinted for his life out of the store and jumped into his car. I drove away and kept repeating, "Oh my God!" I said to my daughter, "Let's pray that nobody got hurt." I pulled over at a gas station a couple blocks away and called the police. My daughter said, "Momma, let's get out of here." And I drove home, rattled.
I made a report with the police and immediately thought--and the thought has repeated itself--that it is very likely that both of those young men who robbed that store, risking their lives, and the lives of everyone around, could have very easily have been one of my students.
     I was in the neighborhood around the school where I teach. So I easlily thought about specific faces of those who tried to hide in the corners of my room, anonymously. How they tried to not be noticed, and when it was time to read or write, often struggled, not for lack of something to say, but for lack of the skills needed to say it. I think about the boys I loved having in class, who always saw straight into the heart of whatever lesson we examined. They thought critically about where they stood, and had ideas about the world which reflected my own. I immediately thought--and that thought has repeated itself--about how many of those boys had dropped out; I would see them on the street, holler at them, smile and wave. They always waved back and smiled. Then I thought about the kids, like my daughter: kids who read and write with efficacy, and will not rob gas stations. They will not scare to death little girls who look like their little sisters. Nor will they risk their own lives for short, quick pennies. They do not act hopelessly. They go to ballet class instead.
     Those young men I met that awful August evening keep me teaching in February, when the novelty has worn away and natural fatigue has set in. When I have no patience for those students who refuse to take what I think is their own pass to freedom and choice. They are the boys my grandmother first, then my mother second always tried to make us understand and feel connected to and compassion for. And it is hard at times.
     When your become their victim, from where do you summon the compassion? When they threaten your children--how do you keep believing in the idea of education as freedom? Well, I recall that August night with realism, fear and gratitude. My child is safe today. My child is educated today, but my child is also threatened by the presence of that child who knows not the freedom of efficacious literacy. I need not only feel compassion anymore. I need to be aware and keep teaching.