Signs, Signs Everywhere

I’m white.  I’m southern.  Many of my kind refer to themselves as “GRITS” aka “Girls Raised in the South”.  I like to eat grits, especially when cheesed and topped by shrimp brined in white wine.  I do not, however, wish to be called a “GRIT”.  You can call me “girl”.  I don’t mind “Miss”.  You can use “Woman”, even if it is just an affectation.  Even though fifty-ish, I still can’t go “Ma’am”.  Something deep inside flips every time a 20-something says it; especially if he’s hot, sporting a day’s growth, and friendly.

I’m an NPR junkie.  I love Terri Gross and “Fresh Air” (said with great fervency, always).  She, her sultry voice, and her show make my morning commute bearable…pleasant, even.  If Terri wants to talk about it, I want to listen to it. So I’m browsing Facebook.  I’ve friended NPR. (Of course, I have.)  And NPR posts about Jay-Z having written a book called “Decoded”.  I know enough NPR code to realize that Jay-Z and Terri will accompany me on my commute the next morning.  I’m thrilled at the idea of my tiny, elfin hero interviewing Big Bad Jay-Z, and express my delight to my beloved.

Me:  “Cool! Terri Gross is interviewing Jay-Z on “Fresh Air” tomorrow.”

Him:  “Oh…Great!”  (You should supply the appropriate amount of sarcasm.  Think Ray Romano.  If you’re older than that, think Archie Bunker.  And if that still doesn’t work for you, Jackie Gleason as Ralph Cramden should do the trick.)

I did listen. And, I learned.

I don’t know how things are all over.  I only know how things are here; and here most caucasian people, my age or older, look at hip-hop culture and go, “Huh?”.  Some get hostile.  There’s a tendency among them to corral all young African-Americans into a group called “Rappahs”.  (I once overhead an elderly gentleman use the term “Hippity-hoppers”.  That was just funny.)

I can’t quote Jay-Z.  Too much was said. But, when he was done, I realized that the culture glamorized by his music isn’t borne of artistry, or bravado, or imagination.  It’s an environment, the one he grew up in, an environment that produces children unable to see through reality to morals, to social dictates, to behavior expected by white, middle-class Americans who want desperately to be cool, to embrace hip-hop, to speak the language, and all the while check every lock on every door every night before going to bed.

I’m paraphrasing here, but the statement went something like this…”A hit record doesn’t change where you’re from, who you are, who your friends are, or what you know.  Those things follow you.”  And, for the first time, I got it.

I am surrounded by “Haters”.  I didn’t originate the terminology, but I understand the label.  These are people who look at those unlike them with scorn borne of fear.  They don’t want to understand, they want uniformity; the old, “My way is the right way.”.  And, speaking of ways, they often ascribe to one, as in “I am the Truth, the Light, and the Way.”  I use the word “ascribe” because the word “follow” intimates adherence and I can not, for the life of me, remember a single Sunday school lesson that told the tale of Jesus looking with scorn upon those he didn’t share ideology, or skin color, or friends.

When my middle son was thirteen, Alan Iverson was crowned rookie of the year in the NBA.  That same year, the evening news ran a story about Iverson’s brush with police.  He was stopped for speeding.  He was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon and possession of marijuana.  There was some kind of business involving domestic violence and jumping out of buildings…okay, maybe I made that one up.  My son wanted sneakers bearing Iverson’s logo.  It wasn’t going to happen. 

I tried, without success, to explain my decision not to support Iverson’s behavior with my money and how wearing his logo sent a message to anyone seeing it that the wearer admired Iverson and his anti-social behavior.  My son looked at me with a mix of confusion and tolerance.  He didn’t speak my language but he was willing to be patient with me in hopes I might come to my senses.  It didn’t happen.

Life comes in cycles. 

Fast forward eleven years.  My youngest son is thirteen.  The Philadelphia Eagles release Donovan McNabb in favor of recently released inmate #33765-183, aka Michael Vick, who has decided to live up to the hype that accompanied his tenure with the Atlanta Falcons before dog-fighting landed him in a federal penitentiary.  To use sports-speak, Mike Vick is “lighting it up”.  The Falcons’ record is seven and two.  They are enjoying one of their most successful seasons ever.  But, when my son searches the TV guide for a football game, he’s looking for the Philadelphia Eagles. 

I find myself recycling words I used eleven years ago while trying desperately to avert my eyes from the television screen as Vick opens a game against McNabb and his new team, the Washington Redskins, by launching an amazing eighty-eight yard missile that results in what is to be the first of many touchdowns.  My son’s eyes glaze over.  I leave the room before mine do, too.

The next day, my son asks, “Who do you think is worse, Vick or T.I.?”  My mind races, “T.I.., T.I., T.I…..I know I’ve heard that somewhere.”  I smile a thoughtful smile and hope my brain doesn’t think as loudly as the hard drive on my PC. 

“Vick!”, I answer with certainty.  He meets my conviction with a look of horror.

“Vick?  You think Vick is worse than a gangster, a person who carries guns, and does drugs?  Vick is worse than that?”

My brain grinds again.  I remember something about a domestic dispute.  There’s a vague recollection of a suicide attempt and a 911 call, lots of general craziness, but I don’t remember drugs or guns so I stick to mine.

“Yep.  Vick is worse.  He killed animals, son.”  I nod slightly, driving my point home.

“But Vick learned his lesson!  He went to prison, got out, and changed his life.  He’s doing good now.  When T.I. got out of prison he went back to doing all the same things again.  He’s back in jail!  How can Vick be worse?”

That’s when it clicks.  My face colors as I realize I’ve confused my vowels.  He’s saying T.I.; I’m hearing T.O., its apples to oranges, rappers to receivers. 

A few days later Terri and Shawn Carter, aka Jay-Z, give me a whole new way of seeing.  My son, who usually listens with me, misses it.  We talk about it later.  With the excitement of new insight, I paraphrase, “A hit record doesn’t change where you’re from, who you are, who your friends are, or what you know.  Those things follow you.” 

“I know, Mom.  I’ve been trying to tell you.”  His voice is filled with weary tolerance.  I didn’t speak his language.  He’d waited patiently, in hopes I’d come to my senses, and I had.

Country musicians sing about God, country, whiskey, women, fast cars, hard work, a good pair of boots, and love.  They write what they know.  Hip-hop artists do, too.  The difference is that most middle-class, white Americans already know what country artists know.  Hip-hop culture shines light on a world blessedly unfamiliar except to survivors, children who learned early on never to count on anyone except themselves and used that knowledge to get out.  It’s a mirror on a different world, and looking down upon it doesn’t make it go away.

And, just for kicks...WWJD?

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