The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje [1 ed.] 9781609173753, 9781611860863

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Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved. McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press, 2013.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

T h e C h ic a n a H ip H o p N a t io n

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

latinos in the united states series

series editor Rubén O. Martinez, Michigan State University editorial board Adalberto Aguirre Jr., University of California, Riverside Robert Aponte, Indiana University–Purdue University Indianapolis Alberta M. Gloria, University of Wisconsin–Madison Julie Leininger Pycior, Manhattan College Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Rogelio Saenz, University of Texas–San Antonio

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

a n a c i h C e h T n o i t a N p o H p i H

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

PO P OL LIT ITIC CS O OF FAN NE EW M MIIL LL LE EN NN NIIA AL LM ME ES STIZAJE

PANCHO McFARLAND Michigan State University Press • East Lansing

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

Copyright © 2013 by Louis McFarland i The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of ANSI/ NISO Z39.48-1992 (R 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

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Michigan State University Press East Lansing, Michigan 48823-5245

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McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ hip hop nation : politics of a new millennial mestizaje / Pancho McFarland. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-60917-375-3 (ebook) — ISBN 978-1-61186-086-3 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Mexican Americans—Ethnic identity. 2. Hip-hop—Influence. 3. Mexican Americans— Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Social conditions. 4. Hip-hop—Social aspects—United States. 5. Rap (Music)—Social aspects—United States. 6. Mexican American youth—Social life and customs. I. Title. II. Title: Chicana hip hop nation. III. Title: Chicano hip hop nation. E184.M5.M23 2013 973’.046872—dc23 2012047675 Cover and book design by Charlie Sharp, Sharp Des!gns, Lansing, MI Cover art is from the Dia de los Muertos (2003) compact disc. Courtesy of Felipe Cuauhtli. All rights reserved.

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McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

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Contents

foreword by Rubén O. Martinez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .xi acknowledgments. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xix

PART 1. SETTING THE THEORETICAL CONTEXT

chapter 1. Quién es más macho? Quién es más Mexicano?: Chican@ and Mexican@ Identities in Rap . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 chapter 2. Barrio Logos: The Sacred and Profane Word of Chicano Emcees. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

PART 2. IDENTITIES OLD AND NEW

chapter 3. Sonido Indígena: Mexica Hip-Hop and Masculine Identity. . . . . . . . 57 chapter 4. Paísas, Compas, Inmigrantes: Mexicanidad in Hip-Hop . . . . . . . . . . 81 chapter 5. Barrio Locos: Street Hop and Amerikan Identity. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

PART 3. MEXICANIDAD, AFRICANIDAD

chapter 6. Multiracial Macho: Kemo the Blaxican’s Hip-Hop Masculinity . . . 157 chapter 7. The Rap on Chicano/Mexicano and Black Masculinity: Gender and Cross-Cultural Exchange . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 chapter 8. “Soy la Kalle”: Radio, Reggaetón, and Latin@ Identity . . . . . . . . . . . . 195

PART 4. HIP-HOP AND JUSTICE

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chapter 9. Teaching Hip-Hop: A Pedagogy for Social Justice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

afterword. Hip-Hop and Freedom-Dreaming in the Mexican Diaspora . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 appendix. Music Sources. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 259 notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 references. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 273 index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

RUBÉN O. MARTINEZ

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Foreword

Music has long been a part of rebellion and revolution in society, and it was part of both the American and the French Revolution. Years later, the spiritual songs of African Americans helped guide runaway slaves to the North, eluding pursuers and ultimately capture and a return to slave status. In the 1930s and ’40s, Woody Guthrie and other musicians sang about the lives of the less fortunate in society. A decade later the Beat Generation came into prominence and influenced the countercultures of the 1960s, when musicians took rock ’n’ roll music to anti-war protest movements and moved a new generation of young people. Who can forget, for example, the lyrics of the song Eve of Destruction written by nineteen-year-old P. F. Sloan? Then, in the 1970s, Gil Scott-Heron put his poetry to music and directly criticized the political regimes of the times and their repression of poor people. At the same time, Mexican Americans were growing restless and giving rise to el movimiento Chicano, the social movement in which Mexican Americans redefined themselves as Chicanos and struggled to address issues in civil and labor rights, education, and stolen ancestral lands. During the 1950s, before the Chicano Movement emerged, Lalo Guerrero, the legendary singer/songwriter who came to be known as the “Father of Chicano Music,” entertained audiences throughout the n

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Southwest, making Pachuco swing popular among Mexican Americans. With the rise of the Chicano Movement in the 1960s came songs of the movimiento, beginning with songs of the Farmworker Movement and the corridos of the land grant struggles in New Mexico. During the Chicano Movement Lalo Guerrero recorded songs in honor of Cesar Chavez, the labor leader of the nation’s farmworkers, and Rubén Salazar, the journalist killed by a Los Angeles County Sheriff ’s deputy on August 29, 1970. Salazar became the symbol of the struggle against police brutality in Los Angeles. Numerous other musical groups and ensembles were part of the Chicano Movement, including El Teatro Campesino, Los Alacranes Mojados, Los Reyes de Albuquerque, Los Alvarados, and La Rondalla Amerindia de Aztlán. It was a time when Chicano music was part of political and cultural change in the United States. During the same period, in Latin America the theology of liberation rose as a movement against poverty and injustice and was linked to “musica de protesta,” with numerous musicians responding to the tyranny of imperalism and the regimes of dictatorial puppets. Victor Jara, a Chilean artist and political activist, was among the artists who established la Nueva Canción Chilena, which promoted the revolution in popular music in Chile by combining left-wing activism with traditional folk music. Tortured and killed by Pinochet’s Junta, Jara became the martyr of the resistance to the rising neoliberal regime and the symbol of the struggles for justice and human rights in Latin America. In Mexico, the music of Oscar Chávez gave rise to la Nueva Trova and directly criticized political regimes and their policies. More recently we have learned of the music of Sixto Rodriguez, the critical poet-musician from Detroit whose folk-rock-rap music greatly influenced the anti-apartheid movement of young whites in South Africa in the 1970s. Today, the musical genre that gives voice to the societal concerns and critical views of young people is hip-hop. In this volume Pancho McFarland takes us through the various styles and themes of Chican@ hip-hop musicians who focus on critical issues within Chicano communities. He extends his thinking from his previous book, Chicano Rap: Gender and Violence in the Postindustrial Barrio, where he examined violence and misogyny in Chicano rap. As in that work, here he discusses the different contexts (cultural, political, historical, and economic—including economic restructuring and globalization) of Chican@ hip-hop and emphasizes its polycultural features and, in particular, its many critical themes. Important to these dimensions of Chican@ hip-hop are the generations of Mexican immigrants and the continuing evolving nature of Chicano identities. Ethnic group identities are multidimensional across time and space, and this is no less the case with Chicano identities. Additionally, ethnic identities vary in terms of level and scope, moving from the local level and the regional ethnic subgroup that subsume individuals to the broadest one, which is inclusive of several related ethnic subgroups and provides a sort of umbrella that

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subsumes them all. The emergence of Chicanismo as part of the Chicano Movement in the Southwest in the 1960s reflected the rise of a new ethnic group—rooted in the Manito, Tejano, and Californio subcultures of the northern provinces of New Spain, and generations of Mexican immigrants—one fully aware of its historical and cultural distinctiveness. The rise of the Mexican identity would increase the complexity of these subgroup identities, particularly following the conclusion of the American-Mexican War in 1848, when new national boundaries set in motion long-term influences on the national and ethnic identities of the regional Spanish-speaking subgroups of what was now the American Southwest. American identities added to the complexity of ethnic group formation in the Southwest. Racial exclusion and domination led to the formation of Mexican American identities, separate from both Mexican and American identities. Ultimately, the blending of indigenous, Spanish, and American cultures gave rise to a distinct ethnic group—Chicanos. The influences of Africans would remain unacknowledged for decades to come. For many Americans, Chicanos were a militant, politically oriented subgroup of Mexican Americans, but the integrative aspects of Chicanismo took the identity beyond Mexican American identities, reflecting not only their polycultural roots but also the plurality of cultures in the country and the dynamics of ethnic group formation in the country. Today, Chicanismo reflects, as it did in the past, many of the most progressive features of ethnic group identity among the Spanish-speaking subgroups rooted in the Southwest. At the most general level, ethnic group formation among these subgroups encompasses the most recent arrivals from Mexico and all the following generations situated along different points on the road from immigrant to Chicano identities. Despite the many different ethnic subgroup identities—such as Manito, Mejicano, Mexican American, and Chicano—most members of these ethnic subgroups share a sense of fictive kinship and, in the political realm, tend to see themselves as allies vis-à-vis American racism and its nativistic movements. The rise of a Latino identity, which is broader and more integrative still, with Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Cubans, and Central and South Americans adding to the mix, presents the broadest ethnic identity for the members of all of these groups, while still maintaining an ethnic identity based on their primary subgroup membership. This book focuses on Chican@ hip-hop rather than Latino hip-hop. It stays focused on the Mejicano-Chicano continuum, which has themes distinctive from those of other Latino subgroups. Indigenous roots, notions of an ancestral homeland in the Southwest, and historical struggles for self-determination combine to give these subgroups distinctive issues of concern that lead to distinctive audiences for Chican@ hip-hop as it seeks to promote group solidarity relative to political issues.

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As it does so, it also promotes the social evolution of Chicano identities and the cultural integration of various ethnic subgroup identities, whether they are transitional generations from Mexico, Mexican Americans, or fully identified Chicanos. The polycultural aspects of Chican@ hip-hop will ultimately situate its followers within the dynamics of transnationalism and the broader dimensions of Latino identity formation. That will take time, however, and will continue to be shaped by many factors. In the meantime, we have McFarland’s analyses of critical aspects of Chican@ hip-hop, including immigrant rights, anti-racism, anti-imperialism, and self-determination. When it is critical of the forms of domination and oppression, that is when Chican@ hip-hop is at its best. In this volume McFarland continues his pioneering work and sets the course for a body of scholarship that will continue to grow over the coming years.

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

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Preface

The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation: Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje developed as a means to answer a number of questions that I have been asking for many years. As a light-skinned Chicano with an Irish father and last name, I have recognized the diversity within the Mexican-origin population for as long as I can remember and have felt strangely uncomfortable with the racial orthodoxy that permeated my Chican@ community and my experience with Chican@ studies. I experienced a similar feeling as a former b-boy and long-time hip-hop “head.” That is, for many in and outside of hip-hop, the culture is black American and, therefore, non-black people within hip-hop are seen as appropriating black culture in much the same way that Jerry Lee Lewis, the Rolling Stones, and the rock ’n’ roll industry as a whole adapted the blues to meet their own personal and financial needs. As we shall see throughout this text, the arguments for authenticity and “keepin’ it real,” as we say in Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL), involve much more than racial authenticity. Later, as an anarchist scholar and activist, I questioned many of my white comrades who could not understand how I and others could be Chican@ (a nationalist identity) and be part of the revolutionary Left that refuted nationalism. As a member of these three communities, and as a Chicano anarchist hip-hop n

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head, I felt I could see race, nationalism, identity, culture, and revolutionary politics differently and more accurately than ardent cultural nationalists, the hip-hop community, and the revolutionary Left. Each seemed to lack a nuanced understanding of the other and Others inside of their respective communities. Each, it seemed, wanted to claim an authenticity that my experience taught me does not exist. In order to test my hypothesis that the Mexican-origin population is extremely diverse and that the politics developed from this diversity can be liberatory, I chose to examine hip-hop texts produced by Chican@s and Mexican@s in the United States with a particular emphasis on their politics of identity. Over the last six years, with the help of countless anarchists, Chican@s and Latin@s, hip-hop headz, and colleagues, I was able to sharpen my focus and write a series of interconnected essays, each of which addresses my central questions and, when combined, serve to provide the nuanced understanding of the identities and politics of young Mexican-origin people in the United States that I have been searching for all these years. This book examines the development of the identities of people of Mexican descent in the United States at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Mestizaje has been the primary concept for understanding this population variously called Mexican-origin, ethnic Mexican, Mexican American, Mexican, and the Mesoamerican diaspora, and consisting of Mexican-born Mexican@s and U.S.-born [email protected] I rethink mestizaje by examining ethno-racial identity from a polycultural perspective. Polyculturalism accounts for the dizzying number of ways in which people of the Mesoamerican diaspora identify racially and ethnically. The important subculture of hip-hop vividly illustrates the current diversity in the Mexican-origin population in the United States, and the historical processes of polyculturalism responsible for it. Such a polycultural perspective helps us understand the new millennial mestizaje that I identify in twenty-first-century Mexican American youth. This new mestizaje is a continuation of centuries-old processes in the Americas. While hip-hop is not reflective of the entirety of the Mesoamerican diaspora, it is reflective of a process of polyculturalism that affects this population in varying degrees. This complex and varied group has been categorized, racialized, and homogenized in the United States and even in the imaginations of many members of the Mexican-origin population. A polycultural analysis of Mexican-origin people in hip-hop (what I will call the Chican@ Hip Hop Nation or ChHHN) challenges essentialist notions of ethno-racial identity and more accurately reflects the complex historical, multicultural, and interactive processes that have constituted the people who have become known as Mexican Americans. Hip-hop itself is similarly polycultural. Its multiple origins result from a history of colonialism, slavery, and disenfranchisement, and from the use of West African cultural traditions to resist their oppression. Its multiple influences from many

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locations throughout the globe have been identified and analyzed in hip-hop studies scholarship, and as such will not be discussed in great detail here (Flores 2000; Hoch 2007; Toop 2000). Colonialism; interracial and interethnic contact through trade, migration, and slavery; the dominance of the capitalist economy; and technological development are among the various historical processes contributing to the development of people of Mexican descent in the United States. The Mexican-origin population in the United States is a colonized people whose lands, livelihoods, and resources have been usurped by foreign powers through violence and the force of law. This population has been displaced and proletarianized both as rural and urban wage labor (Acuña 2010; Duran and Bernard 1973; Ornelas 1993; Valdez and Steiner 1972). The peoples of Mesoamerica and the indigenous of the United States have been migrating and trading with each other for centuries. They have also waged war on and colonized each other. In addition, the migration of Africans prior to the European “discovery” of the Americas, and their enslavement during the Spanish colonial era and early U.S. periods complicated the ethnic mix of this population. Later, U.S. expansion and industrialization added further interethnic contact. Today, globalization, neoliberalism, and communications technology have complicated the mestizaje of Mexicans in the United States. The history of the Mesoamerican diaspora relative to colonialism (both classical and neocolonial) has created a colonized population that, like all oppressed and colonized peoples, has developed cultures of resistance. This population’s many and varied expressions of resistance are expressed in the lyrics, style, and behavior of today’s Chican@ Hip Hop Nation. I argue that an examination of the lyrics and music of the ChHHN reveal the complex identities of this new generation of people of Mexican descent in the United States, as well as the inherent politics of resistance within this generation. Young, urban, working- and underclass men dominate the cultural products of the ChHHN. Their rhetoric reflects among other things that their attempts to develop a revolutionary culture that might lead to radical social change are likely to fall short since they alienate and discriminate against women and sexual Others (lesbian, gay, transgender, bisexual, etc). Their particularized understanding of gender and masculinity results in a male gender identity for these men that is narrowly defined, sexist, homophobic, and hypermasculine. While the young Mexican-origin population, and males in the ChHHN in particular, do not uniformly define themselves in this manner, analyses of their lyrics reveal a similarity of viewpoints. While the ChHHN expresses a wide variety of identities and politics among the youth of Mexican-origin population in the United States, they do not express the full complexity and diversity of this population. Their working- and underclass

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urban identities reflect a particular class and racial consciousness not universally held by Mexican@s and Chican@s. I suggest that Chicano and Mexicano hip-hop musicians, producers, and emcees (or rappers) can be, and often are, an organic intellectual vanguard for both a young Mexican-origin population and a global, interconnected, and transnational youth of the Global Hip Hop Nation (GHHN). The political rhetoric of Chicano and Mexicano emcees (and that of most of the GHHN) attempts to both affirm racial and ethnic identity and transcend its narrow confines by evoking cross-racial, interethnic, and transnational solidarity and identity. The contribution of hip-hop to a liberatory project for people of Mexican descent and an international working class depends on the ability of politically progressive emcees to overcome their oppressive tendencies, and for the larger progressive forces in our world to understand the subject positions, identities, and politics of young people of Mexican descent, and to encourage their political development. The broader Mexican working-class and activist communities must take seriously these young men and their cultural expression if we are to strive for a more free and equal future. The texts of the ChHHN have a great deal to teach about contemporary struggle. It is the potential for mobilizing young Mexican-origin youth in service of movements for a radically different society that motivates my work. In the following, I present an analysis and critique of the work of U.S. Mexican/Chicano emcees (rappers) from an anti-authoritarian, anticapitalist perspective that seeks a nonhierarchical and ecologically sustainable future. My analysis and critique rest heavily on the perspectives of Marxist and anarchist writers, and activists who are attentive to the problems of sexism, racism, and ecological destruction.2 Importantly, communal—even communist—modes of living were often the rule in the experience of Mesoamericans and the Mesoamerican diaspora. Communal and collective forms of social organization were common among pre-Columbian and Spanish-colonial-era indigenous Mexicans, and the ideals of Marxist communism and anarcho-communism and anarcho-syndicalism were influential in early twentieth-century Mexican and Chicano working-class struggles.3 Important anarchist revolutionaries, including Ricardo Flores Magón and El Partido Liberal Mexicano, Lucy Gonzalez Parsons, and Carlos Cortes, worked as anarchist organizers, theorists, and propagandists within Mexican@/Chican@ communities, as well as within the broader revolutionary Left during the early and mid-twentieth century. The ChHHN is the newest iteration of Mexican-origin working-class expressive culture and resistance, and borrows heavily from cultural nationalist, Marxist, and anarchist thought. While not always aiming toward a more free and equal society (some members of the ChHHN exhibit outright pathological violence), its inherent criticism of power offers “dreams of freedom” much like those of the Mexican anarchist Ricardo Flores Magón (Gomez-Quiñonez 1979; Bufe and

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Verter 2005), and the “freedom dreams” (Kelley 2002) of artists and activists of color from across the globe.4 This book is divided into four parts. The two chapters in part 1 present the reader with the theoretical framework and perspective guiding each of the chapters. Chapter 2, “Barrio Logos,” offers an understanding of the Chicano hip-hop perspective by examining a series of key concepts found in the language and subculture. The guiding concepts offered in chapter 1, and the logos of barrio youth analyzed in chapter 2 combine to offer a multi-textured introduction to the identities, and the meanings of these identities, examined in subsequent chapters. Political, military, spiritual, and emotional concepts found in the lyrics of Chicano/Mexicano emcees demonstrate that far from being the dangerous countercultural phenomenon depicted by police, schools, and other authorities, hip-hop offers youth a way to navigate an often hostile and degrading world. Its logos provide a structured mode of making meaning and identity in a society that is often experienced as chaotic and threatening to them. Part 2 consists of three chapters that analyze the predominant identities found in Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop. I focus on the work of the St. Paul/Minneapolis–based group Los Nativos to examine Chicano neo-indigenism in chapter 3, “Sonido Indígena.” The development of an indigenous or Mexica identity by many Chicano emcees and hip-hop aficionados reveals not simply a naive nostalgia or apolitical appropriation of Indianness, but a “liberation mythology” (Rivera 2010) and a set of “freedom dreams” (Kelley 2002) that allow these youth to imagine and strive for a better future for native people, ethnic Mexicans, and “all our relations.” In addition to presenting their freedom dreams, I also question how these Mexica dreamers see gender in their new world. Chapter 4, “Paísas, Compas, Inmigrantes,” focuses on the lyrics of Kinto Sol, Akwid, Mexiclan, and Chingo Bling, who express Mexican national and immigrant identities. A sense of Mexican national identity has solidified, and certain symbols have become the essence of Mexicanidad. Through literature, film, education, muralism, and music, the Mexican state and Mexican cultural workers have established a quasi-official Mexicanness. An important aspect of this Mexicanidad is a heteronormative patriarchal perspective and the symbol of la familia as an organizing principle of Mexican life and identity. Many Chicano/Mexicano emcees adopt this symbolism and ideology to form a Mexican national identity in diaspora. The last chapter in part 2, “Barrio Locos: Street Hop and Amerikan Identity,” begins to unravel the complex relationship that workingclass Chicano youth have with “America.” The role of colonialism, and the relations between colonizer and colonized remain key to understanding the street-hop perspective and identity. I examine the work of emcees Thief Sicario, Psycho Realm, and others who exhibit a street-hop perspective. While Chican@ youth are victims of predatory capitalism whose agents deal with a reserve army of labor or surplus

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Mexican American population through punitive measures, especially the prison and justice systems and ideological attacks in popular culture, these same street-hop youths engage in a fierce claiming of citizenship and a redefinition of the concepts of “American” and “America.” Their criticisms of capitalism and the state, and willingness to rebel against irrational authority reveal a latent anarchism that can expand to further the goals of developing a new, equal, and free world. Part 3 consists of three chapters that engage the African presence in Mexican identity and culture. The recognition of the importance of African culture to Mexican ethnicity illustrates a central argument of this work: Mexicans are a complex polycultural people whose only authentic nature is hybridity and diaspora. Chapter 6, “Multiracial Macho,” examines the work of emcee and record-label owner Kemo the Blaxican. Kemo, whose mother is Mexican and father was African American, embodies African-Amerindian mutual influence. His physical body and how he adorns it, as well as his music, lyrics, and iconography shine a bright light on the importance of this relationship. Chapter 7, “The Rap on Chicano/Mexicano and Black Masculinity,” continues the investigation into this increasingly important relationship. Here, my coauthor, Leslie Baker-Kimmons, and I attempt to understand how contemporary working-class Chicano and black men have a parallel understanding of masculinity. Guiding questions for this chapter include: Do Chicano and black working-class youth present a masculine identity that challenges the dominant notions of hegemonic masculinity? In what ways do racially marginalized Chicano and black men pursue the “seductive package of patriarchal manhood” (hooks 2003)? Where might we find an alternative notion of masculinity in black and Chicano hiphop? We do this through an analysis of the lyrics to two hundred randomly selected popular songs from dozens of Chicano and black emcees. Chapter 8, “‘Soy la Kalle’: Radio, Reggaetón, and Latin@ Identity,” rounds out part 3. In this chapter I examine how Latin@ youth—Mexican American youth, in particular—understand themselves as fans of reggaetón. Once again, the question of blackness, and Mexican American and Latin@ relationships to it, surfaces as Mexican American/Latina@ youth who do not see themselves as black create an identity around an arguably black-diasporic musical form. In addition, this chapter examines how the pernicious capitalist marketplace profits from selling youth a certain understanding of themselves; this understanding, of course, benefits the ruling class as it places Latin@ youth identity within the confines of consumerism, whereby latinidad becomes equated with certain fashions and other cultural consumption. Part 4 consists of chapter 9, “A Hip-Hop Pedagogy for Social Justice,” and an afterword, “Hip-Hop and Freedom-Dreaming in the Mexican Diaspora.” In chapter 9, I extend the notion of Chican@ polyculturality further and show how it can be placed in the service of a social justice pedagogy. Through developing a pedagogy of

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the erotic, a pedagogy of race relations, and a pedagogy of peace, we can use hip-hop and the identities created therein to teach a radical hip-hop politics that challenges the marginalization of people of color and the disenfranchisement that comes from centuries of racist, sexist capitalism that leaves us very little control of our lives. Hip-hop’s polycultural and politically resistant nature provides unique opportunities to engage youth and harness their rebellious energies toward a better future. And therein lies the promise of understanding ourselves better. Such “knowledge of self,” to use a hip-hop concept borrowed from the 5 Percent Nation and Rastafarianism and rendered in numerous songs, including Black Star’s “K.O.S. (Determination),” has unlimited potential for the pursuit of “freedom dreams” and dramatic social change. To draw connections between identity issues among the Mexican diaspora and a social justice agenda, the afterword examines how the identities discussed in the Chican@ Hip Hop Nation have liberatory potential if infused with the knowledge and dedication of activists and revolutionaries. The importance of the study of hip-hop lies not in attention to its aesthetic and poetic qualities or its hold on youth, but on how and if hip-hop can contribute to a liberatory politics.

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Acknowledgments

I want to briefly acknowledge the contributions that many friends, colleagues, and loved ones have made to this project and to my larger body of work. First, more than any other, Dr. Rubén Martinez has molded this project. His scrutiny of the earlier drafts of this work has made this the best book that it could be. My longtime mentor, Devon G. Peña, has been influential in many ways for more than twenty years. Many colleagues at Chicago State University (CSU) have provided intellectual support including Leslie Baker-Kimmons (coauthor of chapter 7), Paul Gomberg, Quraysh Lansana, Arthur Redman, John Boelter, Yan Searcy, Phillip Beverly, Ann Kuzdale, Fernando Diaz and the Latino Resource Center, Bob Bionaz, Steve Rowe, Anthony Vasquez, Margaret King, Gabrielle Toth, and Victor Sorell. Colleagues outside of Chicago State have also been supportive. These include Raquel Z. Rivera, Luis Alvarez, Danny Widener, Juan Flores, Zach Furness, Monika Gosin, Mako Fitts, the Bad Subjects collective, Jared Ball, Arturo Aldama, Chela Sandoval, and Peter Garcia. Jean Ait Belkhir at Race, Gender and Class has published two articles on hip-hop and gender that I have written, including a much shorter version of chapter 7. Research assistants Todd Wells and Crystal Smith helped enormously with data gathering and library research in the early stages of the project. All my n

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students at Chicago State have helped me better understand the world and the stakes involved in challenging irrational authority and illegitimate power. CSU student interns have made meaningful contributions to community empowerment on the South Side of Chicago. I thank them. I must also acknowledge the urban gardeners and members of the Green Lots Project and the Black Oaks Center for Sustainable Renewable Living in Chicago who are dedicated to making a better world. Those involved in the food justice, food sovereignty/autonomy, sustainability, racial justice and indigenous rights, anarchist, anti-globalization, and anti-capitalist movements provide me with energy and sustenance. I write as part of a dialogue with those participating in actions designed to overcome hierarchy and domination of all sorts and the establishment of a more equitable, fair, and free world. Artists/musicians, hip-hop headz, and rebel youth give me hope. Krazy Race, Kemo the Blaxican, Kiawitl, Sicko Soldado, Zero, Jehuniko, Skribe, Thief Sicario, Fernando Escobar, Felipe Cuauhtli, and others have provided me with access to their world of hip-hop. They have taught me a lot, perhaps without knowing it, and their art is important—I hope more people listen. Virginia McFarland (mother), Mary McFarland (sister), Mary Cortez (grandmother), Jim Cortez (grandfather), Jackie Cortez-Kroskob (aunt), Ernesto Marquez (brother-in-law), Michele Martinez (cousin), Michael Martinez (cousin), Salvador McFarland-Bragg (son), Malik McFarland-Bragg (son), Evon James McFarland (son), and Kourtney CraigmilesMcFarland (wife) have contributed their support and their wisdom. This polycultural clan of the Mexican and African Diasporas are responsible for all that is useful in this document. To all my relations: In lak’ech.

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Setting the Theoretical Context

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Quién es más macho? Quién es más Mexicano?: Chican@ and Mexican@ Identities in Rap

Juan Zarate’s song “Café,” examining the identities and ethno-racial history of people of Mexican descent in the United States, is my starting point for an examination of how a late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century generation of Mexicans in the United States understand themselves. I examine hip-hop as an important site of Chican@/Mexican@ identity construction and self-representation because as Bejarano (2007, 38) shows in her analysis of Chican@ and Mexican@ high-schoolers, “Youth cultures provide outlets where Mexicana/o and Chicana/o youths culturally perform their ‘Mexicanness’ or ‘Chicanismo.’ It is also the location where they become immersed in the politics and performance of their identities.” The development of their identities through the organic, polycultural movement of hip-hop can serve youth of Mexican descent in the United States in realizing an anticolonial politics of liberation. Such a liberatory political identity can only occur within a broader dialogue around anticapitalism, anticolonialism, and antiauthoritarianism more generally. Otherwise, its oppressive, sexist, homophobic, and violent tendencies may win out, and these youth may learn to see themselves through the lens of a capitalist, patriarchal dominance paradigm (McFarland 2008a). n

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In this song, Zarate, the South Side Chicago Chicano, describes the multiple aspects of himself as someone whose skin is the color brown (café). He raps in Spanish: “Soy del nopal. / Soy del teotihuacan. / Soy olmeca. / . . . / Soy mestizo. / De maíz soy hijo. / . . . / Soy nezahuacoyotl, el rey poeta. / Yo soy alma azteca.” Among many other things, Zarate is of the cactus and corn, Olmecans and Aztecans and Nezahuacoyotl, the great Aztec poet-king. Like many Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop emcees, Zarate emphasizes that brownness includes an ancient indigenous past. Many emcees who define themselves as Mexica or indigenous evoke this and other indigenous imagery and concepts to represent (describe themselves and act according to their identity). Zarate delves further into Mesoamerican indigenous worldview and spirituality when he raps: “La profecía, / soy el dos mil doce / después de cinco soles. / . . . / Yo soy eterno como el maya cero.” Here he utilizes Mayan cosmology to make his identity claims. He refers to the oft-cited Mayan prophecy of the new era or sun (“sol”) that will begin in 2012 (“dos mil doce”). The prophecy claims that a revolutionary change will occur on this date, as it did 520 years before at the beginning of the Fifth Sun when Columbus’s arrival in 1492 marked the beginning of the European invasion of the Americas. The Spanish and U.S. invasions and colonizations during the Fifth Sun radically changed indigenous life. The next sun promises similarly drastic changes in indigenous life. Some suggest a return to prominence and prosperity for native people in the Americas. In the next line, Zarate makes claims to immortality since he is eternal like the Mayan concept of the zero. As a brown person, he is pure truth and will live forever like the sophisticated Mayan mathematics that many people of Mexican descent claim proudly. Zarate also claims North American lands (“Anahuac”) for Mexican indigenous people (“Mexica” or Aztec) as he repeats a freedom cry of many Chicano indigenists: “Anahuac, aztlán libre y mexica.” An additional aspect of Chicano identity for many emcees is resistance to colonialism and racism. He addresses this, rapping: “Del sur, yo soy el hombre que muere parado del norte sembrado / a caso de ser mojado.” As a man from the South (“sur”) or Mexico trying to make it to the United States (“el norte”), he dies on his feet simply because he is an immigrant (“a caso de ser mojado”). This line points to the injustice and violence of a global political-economic system and a new colonialism that cause many Mexicans to search for work in the United States. Zarate implies that Mexicans are forced off of their lands as a result of the consolidation of colonial power through international trade agreements and other international laws and treaties. Mexicans often make the dangerous journey across barren deserts along Mexico’s northern frontier and what used to be Mexican territory in today’s Southwestern United States. In addition to commenting on the injustice, Zarate’s song provides rhetorical resistance to the racist nationalism that leads to such deaths. He raps: “Inmigrante / soy la tierra robada. / Tu eres minuteman. / Yo soy la bala.”

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Zarate’s identity as a Mexican in the United States includes being an immigrant while at the same time being a native of stolen land (tierra robada). However, since he is victimized by racist and colonial forces such as the notorious anti-immigrant vigilante group Minutemen, he has to resist and become a bullet (yo soy la bala). His resistant stance does not end with criticizing U.S. neocolonialism, but also includes indigenous struggle against racist Mexican federal-government policy. He references the uprising of thousands of Mayans in the state of Chiapas in Mexico’s south. The revolution that began on January 1, 1994, included an armed rebellion with an organized army, the EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional: Zapatista Army of National Liberation), and a highly organized network of small villages and towns that re-created their communities in line with Mayan traditions and the late-twentieth-century international indigenous movement that claimed autonomy and sovereignty (Autonomedia 1994; McFarland 1999; Ross 2002). Making this spirit of rebellion part of his identity, Zarate raps: “Soy ‘ya basta!’ Marcos entiende?” The phrase ya basta! (enough already) symbolizes that native Mexicans have had enough of the racism and neglect of the Mexican state and the increased deterioration of their society due to agreements such as the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) and the international capital invasion of multinational agribusiness and other industries. “Marcos” refers to Subcomandante Marcos, the prolific theorist and military strategist of the EZLN who many throughout the Mexican and international Left and activist communities view as an inspiration and leader of the anticapitalist, anti-imperialist movement. In addition, Zarate’s mestizaje includes symbols and imagery that have become part of the official Mexican identity narrative. He raps1: “Soy el niño heroe. / Mi sangre en la bandera / con el blanco y el verde.” Los Niños Heroes have become part of the Mexican consciousness for their resistance to imperialism in the mid-nineteenth century. In 1847, during the U.S. war against Mexico, the boy soldiers jumped from Chapultepec Castle rather than be captured by the invading enemy forces. One soldier wrapped himself in a red, white, and green Mexican flag. Zarate raps about this and many other images that have become associated with a Mexican national identity, including la catrina (“Mi tía es la catrina”) from the Mexican game lotería; the saying that life doesn’t mean much (“Vale nada la vida”); the square in front of federal government buildings in Mexico City (el Zócalo); the Mexican drinks tequila and mescal; and the symbols of the eagle and serpent (aguila and serpiente) on the Mexican flag. He claims to be a mestizo (mixed-race person), and these symbols are part of his heritage. His images of strength and resistance rely primarily on masculine iconography, including the male warrior-heroes he invokes throughout the song, and reliance on the imperialist Aztec. Women and feminine iconography are rare in the lyrics of

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Zarate and other Chicano and Mexicano emcees. Zarate’s identity and definition of brown comes from a male perspective. Of the numerous images he claims as part of his identity, only a few reference women, and these are in roles expected of women in patriarchal societies. Zarate’s women are nurturers. He says his aunt is la catrina, referencing the famous healer or curandera Maria Sabina, and reduces the famous artist and revolutionary Frida Kahlo to her motherhood (“Soy el hijo que perdió Frida”: I’m the son that Frida lost). The narrow roles for women in his narrative of Mexicanidad (Mexicanness) are indicative of Chicano and Mexicano emcees’ reliance on patriarchal ideology for their lyrical subject matter and identity claims. As men, racialized and othered by the U.S. racial-classification system, working-class youth of Mexican descent are disempowered. They are not allowed to be men in the twenty-first-century sense of the U.S. hegemonic ideal man defined through power—physical, financial, and sexual. One important trait of hegemonic manhood in the United States today is a man’s distance from femininity, and his control over women.2 To be a man, then, is to be sexually dominant, and to eschew any inkling of femininity. In most Chicano hip-hop, women are represented as sex objects, as servants of men (mothers, aunts, wives), or more commonly are made invisible. Men are represented as powerful warriors and soldiers who have control over their lives and violently resist racists and racist policy and practices (McFarland 2008a). Juan Zarate’s song speaks to the dominant identities of many young persons of Mexican descent: the indigenous, the Mexican nationalist, the rebellious street “soldier,” and the hypermasculine man. In addition, Chican@/Mexican@ mestizaje speaks to traditional and new understandings of race, including increased interaction with people of other races/ethnicities. Primary among these interactions for Chican@s/Mexican@s in hip-hop is the relationship that they have to black people and black culture. While Zarate’s lyrics do not address this influence as part of his brown identity, his music alerts us to this fact. “Café,” like all hip-hop-influenced Chican@ music, relies on a black American rhythmic foundation. The song is bassheavy, with a syncopated rhythm and simple chord progressions. The music in the verses includes the traditional 4/4 hip-hop rhythm of “boom-boom bap,” played by a bass drum (boom) and handclaps (bap) and a four-note broken guitar chord.3 Additionally, high-pitched synthesizer sounds are added for effect—a staple in hip-hop musical production (McFarland 2006a).4 The choruses repeat the “boom-boom bap” rhythm, drop the guitar, and add a chord progression played by a synthesized piano. Zarate’s lyrics place him firmly within the Mexican diaspora in the United States, while his music places him within the African diaspora of the late-twentieth and early-twenty-first centuries (Hoch 2007; Keyes 2002, 2008; Rose 1994).5 Zarate’s music, and that of other Chicano emcees, alerts us to how the history, migration, and settlement patterns; interaction with people of other races and

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ethnicities; and economic circumstances of people of Mexican descent in the United States have caused us to adopt multilayered, multi-tiered, complex identities. Many Chican@ youth construct their identities through cultural practices including listening and creating music. Within their musical cultures, young Chican@s form and take on the roles associated with their identities as they have defined them in relation to pop cultural trends and mass-mediated culture, as well as in more autonomous and organic spaces of conviviality found in hip-hop. Central to Chican@ and Mexican@ identity claims is language use. Through their use of English, Spanish, Spanglish, hiphop slang, and other variants, they lay claim to unique group identities. Duchnowski (2011), quoting from the work of sociolinguist Joyce Penfield, affirms this point, writing: “Distinctive styles of Chicano English are used ‘to convey camaraderie, group identification, and brotherhood.’” Moreover, youth of Mexican descent in the United States have often felt the sting of prejudice and discrimination at the hands of teachers and other authorities who disapprove of their language-use practices and, by extension, their ethnicity. These youth “receive subtle messages from teachers and students that these alternative languages [are] not appropriate or acceptable. . . . [They] repeatedly hear, see and feel as though they [do] not belong because of their language preferences” (Bejarano 2007, 151). The numerous assaults on Spanish and Spanglish experienced by young people effectively make them “ashamed of their identity,” since language, culture, and identity are impenetrably fused (132–33). These assaults on language and identity leave Chican@/Mexican@ youth to create what Gaspar de Alba (1998) calls “alterNative cultures”—those that are alternatives to the dominant culture, utilize and manipulate the dominant culture for their own needs, alter the dominant culture, and stem from indigenous lifeways. Gaspar de Alba explains that “Chicana/o culture is not only an ‘alter-culture’ that simultaneously differs from, is changed by, and changes the dominant culture, but is also an alter-Native culture—an Other culture native to this specific geography” (16). Appropriately, Anzaldua (quoted in Bejarano, 147) asks: “What recourse is left to them but to create their own language? A language which they can connect their identity to, one capable of communicating the realities and values true to themselves.” Through the establishment of subcultural groups like hip-hop, young people feel free to speak their language and to fashion and refashion themselves (Bejarano, 28). Through their entertainment and their expression, they form new identities (99). For this reason, an examination of identity claims in hip-hop offers useful insight into the identities of twenty-first-century Chican@s and Mexican@s. In addition, we know that Mexican@/Chican@ youth identity construction involves the interplay of a number of forces including neocolonialism, popular culture, Mexican culture, race relations, citizenship status, religion, education, local and federal politics, and class.

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Chican@ hip-hop lyrics are “border narratives” or “border talk”; they are “the experiential conversations of people on the borderlands who talk about their lives as border dwellers” (Bejarano, 48). They allow us intimate insight into the life of a twenty-first-century young person of Mexican descent in the United States. They “demonstrate young people’s vulnerable and complex lives as well as the turmoil they confront” (49). Scholars and other authorities overlook these primary data since most are unable to understand the language of these stories. Removed from youth culture and style, we too often interpret their cultural performances through outmoded interpretive frameworks. Our lack of knowledge relative to Chican@ and Mexican@ youth language use and culture can be rectified through careful attention to things such as hip-hop. This book, in part, serves as dictionary, encyclopedia, and thesaurus as it provides translations and interpretations of Chican@ and Mexican@ hip-hop and youth language-use practices. Hip hop and rap music produced and consumed by Chican@s/Mexican@s reflect the polyculturality6 of people of Mexican descent among the United States’ Chican@s. Or as Perez Torres (2006, 311) suggests, Chican@ music “represents an evolving sense of cultural hybridity common to Chicano cultural production.”This Chican@ and Mexican@ polyculturality as expressed through an evolving mestizaje is dynamic. It “allows for other forms of self-identification, other types of cultural creation, other means of social struggle” (Perez-Torres, 327). The dynamic mestizaje evident in the music of people of Mexican descent in the United States not only provides an analysis concerning their identity, but brings into focus questions about this thing called “America.” Again Perez Torres’s insights are instructive as he points out that “Chicano music forms a space in contemporary culture where a critical dialogue continues to develop about the nature and shape of American consciousness” (330). What and who people of Mexican descent are in the United States are important questions, not only for a better self-understanding but also for a more complete image of what “America” and “American” are and will be in the new millennium. As Habell-Pallán (quoted in Chabram Dernersesian 2007, 56) argues, “We need to recognize that we’re not just being imposed upon by the dominant U.S. culture or by European culture—Chicano culture has changed U.S. culture too.” Chican@ hip-hop challenges the one-way assimilationist perspective in “American” culture, illustrating what José David Saldívar (in Chabram-Dernersesian 2007, 86) called a “transfrontera imaginary.” This imaginary “challenges dominant national centers of identity and culture with new borderland subjectivities and theories.” Chican@ hip-hop heads and performers recognize that a new “America” is emerging even while most of the rest of us continue to invest in outdated understandings of what it means to be “American.” An analysis of Chican@ hip-hop shows that the identities of young people

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(12–25) of Mexican descent in the United States during the first decade of the twenty-first century are complex, to say the least. This new millennial mestizaje7 varies along a number of axes, including geography, class, race, gender, sexual orientation, and religion. Thus, we can no longer say, as we once attempted to do during the Chicano Movement of the 1960s and 1970s, that there is one single way to be a Chican@: a politically conscious person of Mexican descent who grew up in the United States. We remain mestizos (people with multiple racial, cultural, and class influences), but our understanding of this mestizaje has become ever more complex. By examining a select sample of Chican@/Mexican@ emcees from across the country, I will show how the numerous youth identities combine, conflate, and combat one another to create a generation that more accurately reflects our transnational, polycultural nation and world than essentialist and biological notions of race, ethnicity, nationality, and gender. Additionally, I find it important to examine youth culture as a window into our understanding of the ethnic Mexican population in the United States at the beginning of the new millennium, since as Juan Flores (2009a) argues regarding Caribbean youth culture in the United States: “Young people in today’s urban diasporas . . . need to be centered in analyses of contemporary transnational communities” (27) since “their very lives center on the transculturation and hybridization of new identities resulting from trans- and cross-national social practice” (26–27). The complexity of the identities of people of Mexican descent in the United States results from their diasporization, hybridization, and transnational nature. Nowhere are these processes more evident than in Chican@ hip-hop. This exploration of identity among Mexican Americans culminates in an examination of the politics of these identities and how they can serve a social-justice or revolutionary agenda for the Mexican diaspora in the United States,8 and in the global working class more broadly. Careful attention to the lyrics of Chican@ and Mexican@ emcees help us understand the politics of this new generation, and how movements can learn from and influence young people of Mexican descent.

Language and Identity

I will be examining the language of Chican@ emcees and how they creatively and strategically employ distinct language-use practices for a number of purposes. Importantly, they use language as a means to express their understandings of themselves and resist the imposed definitions of them. Since the next chapter is devoted to key concepts and practices used widely within Chican@ hip-hop, this section is an introduction to the general analytical framework used throughout this

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work. It also aspires to convince the reader of the importance of carefully examining Chican@ and Mexican@ youth language-use practices as a means to understand the identities of a new generation of people of Mexican descent in the United States. The proper framework for understanding is class-based and polycultural as opposed to ethnolinguistic. The ethnolinguistic literature is encumbered by its static notion of ethnicity. For example, “ethnolinguistic vitality” relies on the idea of ethnicity as tradition. Assimilation becomes the theoretical model (Sachdev 1995). Seeing a new generation of Mexican-origin people in the United States as an ethnolinguistic population within an assimilationist framework does not take into account the realities of agency among a diverse population. I argue for seeing ethnicity, and thus language-use practices, as polycultural and deeply influenced by class, place, and colonialism. I choose to examine the rap lyrics of Chican@ and Mexican@ emcees as opposed to researching graffiti, hip-hop dance, and b-boying or other aspects of the culture because I believe like Paolo Freire that “Language variations (women’s language, ethnic language, dialects) are intimately interconnected with, coincide with, and express identity. They help defend one’s sense of identity and they are absolutely necessary in the process of struggling for liberation” (qtd. in Perry and Delpit 1998, 30). In this postindustrial era, the poor and marginalized, including and especially Mexican-origin youth in the United States, struggle against “epistemic violence” that uses the discourse of the dominant groups to misunderstand and denigrate racialized others (Martinez 2010, 482–83). The media and other ideological apparatuses commit “psychic violence” (Ball 2011) against Mexicans through their images and stories of Mexican people. In response, Chican@ emcees develop a language, a counterdiscourse, apart from and against the dominant ways of knowing and seeing, to establish themselves as different yet equal citizens with the same rights, responsibilities, and opportunities as others who live in the United States. At the same time, theirs is not a struggle for assimilation. They want to be respected without having to lose their cultural identity. Their language-use practices distinguish them from others, especially Anglos. Speaking Standard American English (SAE) is a symbol of assimilation for many youth of Mexican descent who develop their own language-use practices. Writing about Chican@ speech, Duchnowski (2011) explains that it serves as “a strong in-group symbol.” Like those of previous generations of Mexican-origin youth in the United States, today’s Chican@ and Mexican@ youth language-use practices, such as speaking in Spanglish with friends and peers, speaking Spanish with their elders, and learning Standard American English in their schools, illustrate their struggles around language and identity and their subaltern agency. For marginalized groups who lack access to and ownership of the culture industries and whose stories are rarely told in the first person in our schoolbooks, to speak

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up is an act of claiming agency. It is to say, “I am human and I have worth.” Through speaking we claim space, history, and identity. As Fanon (quoted in Smitherman 1998, 37) finds through his work with the colonized Algerians, “Every dialect, every language, is a way of thinking. To speak means to assume a culture.” Culture as our lifeblood and our connection to our ancestors and others is expressed and passed on primarily through language. Regarding language discrimination and its effects on young people, Duchnowski (2011) writes that “alienating students on the basis of their language variations is the same as discriminating against them because of their race or ethnicity.” Since language is so closely related to identity, and potentially to self-directed, autonomous behavior on the part of subordinated ethnic/colonized groups, the ruling elites need to undermine it. Ball (2011, 4) explains that “colonialism aggresses upon the very ‘function of speech within the African culture’ and, therefore, also speaks directly to an expanded role of the theft of the soul.” Since language includes a way of thinking, for linguistic minorities speaking in “our own” language can be an act of resistance. When we speak in our parents’ language or engage in language-use practices that develop organically in our communities, it is an exercise in decolonizing the mind. Speaking outside the confines of the dominant language allows us to think differently about our circumstances and about who we are, which suggests a degree of cultural autonomy. Because as Espinoza (1998) shows, the hierarchies, inequalities, and injustices of a given society are reproduced and sustained through language:

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The story of social hierarchy has been one where the language of social power reinforces that power by muting other languages. Trying to hold on to disempowered identities causes dysfunctionality in the use of the newly learned language of power and assimilation. . . . Our consciousness, our way of knowing, through our overlapping identities, cannot coexist with the new language. Our earlier cultural voice is dominated and silenced. (19)

The language of power puts limits on the possibilities for thinking, speaking, and acting. In Standard American English, or even Standard Mexican Spanish, there is very little room for Chican@/Mexican@ epistemologies. With only a colonial vocabulary and language, Chican@s/Mexican@s would be robbed of self-definition and self-determination in the United States. Without a language, others speak for and about Mexican-origin people, and in the process, Mexican@s are defined. Espinoza explains that We recognize our various identities in our different languages. Language is the vehicle by which others know us and by which we know ourselves. We give labels to our external and internal thoughts and experiences. Through this process of naming, we define our

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reality. Words are symbols for knowledge. Learning to speak is learning to attach the “right” symbol to the “right” knowing in the “right” context. This is a cultural, political, and personal process. (19)

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Cultural traditions that define the values of subordinate ethnic groups are undermined and made invisible through the standardization process. Linguistic imperialism takes away those techniques and strategies for survival that have sustained people for centuries. The loss of language leads to the inability to sustain culture. The dichos, cuentos, remedios, and consejos of Chican@/Mexican@ parents are not easily translated into an English-only worldview, as they lose their culturally specific relevance. Importantly, though, many Chican@ youth resist identity and language loss through speaking variants of their parents’ language and creating language anew in order to define their unique circumstances as young people of Mexican descent in the postindustrial United States. Or as James Baldwin (qtd. in Perry and Delpit 1998, 67) says about the different but related circumstances of black Americans: “People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate.” The language-use practices of the Chican@ Hip Hop Nation result from their circumstances not being under their control, limited fluency in Spanish and Standard American English, and finding standard forms of Spanish and English inadequate as means to describe and make sense of their world.

CHICANO “ENGLISH”

Contrary to popular belief and much academic writing concerning Mexicans in the United States, they are not a homogenous group. They vary according to gender, sexuality, immigration generation, region, citizenship status, and class, among many other axes of differentiation. Importantly, their language use varies along with many of these other characteristics. We can imagine Chican@ language on a continuum from monolingual Spanish use on one end to monolingual English use on the other. Most fall somewhere between the poles. Some bilingual Spanish speakers don’t read English and vice versa. Some understand when Spanish is spoken to them but respond in English. For many, their language-use practices incorporate a dizzying number of Anglicized Spanish words, Hispanicized English words, Chican@ slang, hip-hop slang, Standard English syntax, and Chican@ phonology. Chican@ language use is polyglot with dozens of different linguistic influences (Duchnowski 2011; Gonzalez 1981). For this reason it is very difficult to create a single definition of Chican@ language. Gustavo Gonzalez (1981) and John Baugh (1981) agreed that placing a single label or definition on Chican@ speech only obscures the complexity

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of the Chican@ population. MaryEllen García (1981) argued that the diversity of Chican@ speech means that we must study smaller speech communities, such as East Los Angeles or Albuquerque. Using this logic I argue that the ChHHN constitutes a speech community. This speech community incorporates a very large sector of the working-class Mexican-origin population in the United States. Chican@s, like many others, use different languages in different contexts. Baugh (1981, 8) explains that “speakers of Chicano (vernacular) English engage in several different linguistic styles depending on what a given situation calls for.” He explains that they shift based on three primary factors: (1) participants in the speech event, (2) location of conversation, and (3) topic of conversation (Baugh, 10). For the purposes of this study, the participants in the speech events in hip-hop are Chican@ youth and young adults. The location of the conversation is the concert/show, party, or personal listening session. The topics of conversation usually involve Chican@ street themes, expressions of identity and solidarity, fun and parties, or social commentary from a Chican@ working-class perspective. Given this context we should not be surprised to find that Chican@ hip-hop speaks in Chican@ street language infused with pachuco caló, Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL),9 various forms of Spanglish, and concepts from the criminal subculture. Perhaps the most recognizable aspect of most Chican@ speech communities is context-specific code-switching. While Gonzalez argues that Spanish-dominant Chican@s are more likely to code-switch, we see this tendency among many Chican@s throughout the continuum of language practices. In addition, phonology is an important distinguishing characteristic of Chican@ speech. Even when Chican@s do not speak Spanish, they often pronounce words with a phonology borrowed from Mexican Spanish (Duchnowski 2011). Chican@ phonology parallels economic status with lower- and lower-middle-class Chican@ English speakers more likely to have a distinct Spanish pronunciation of English than their middle- and upper-middle-class counterparts. Gonzalez (1981) adds that Chican@ intonation is a unique aspect of their phonology. Baugh (1981, 10) noted also that “personal attitudes and spontaneous group loyalties can be embraced or denied by different ways of speaking.” Slightly different language use by members of the ChHHN studied here signal distinct identities. Indigenous/Mexica emcees utilize a language full of Aztec and Mayan words and concepts and allusions to land, nature, spirituality, astronomy, and the like. Streethop emcees will include more words and concepts found in the criminal subculture and a radical street politics filled with the language of “conspiracy” theories and anti-authoritarianism. Mexican nationalists are more likely to use Spanish than other Chican@ hip-hoppers and to use the iconography of Mexican nationalism. All Chican@ emcees and hip-hop headz use language that indicates a close interaction

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with black Americans and black American culture, which includes the grammar and lexicon of Ebonics and black street slang. Chican@ English has many similarities with black American language-use practices (BL). Both Chican@ English speakers and black Ebonics speakers reduce consonants at the ends of words, share syntactic patterns, and use nonstandard verb forms (Duchnowski 2011). While some similarities exist between these speech communities, if we take a closer look at the particular speech community of the ChHHN, we will see a much higher confluence of speech acts between Chican@ hip-hop headz and black hip-hop headz.

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LINGUISTIC SUPREMACY, ASSIMILATION, AND RESISTANCE

We know that the road to financial success in the United States is paved with proper grammar and accent in Standard American English (SAE). One must master SAE and assume the power of this prestige language in order to be successful in the United States. Espinoza (1998, 21) is again instructive on this point, writing that “Linguistic assimilation has served as a particularly effective instrument in cultural suppression and eventually obliteration. Language domination means that English must be learned in order to participate in the society. More important is the pressure to disuse, and even unlearn, other languages.” Many learn to trade culture for success. They willingly “unlearn” their mother tongues in order to live more easily in this country. The process of assimilation and acculturation begins in the public schools. For Latin@/Mexican@ youth from Spanish-dominant households, Americanization begins in ESL class. Here these young people learn that to be “American” means to speak SAE. Bejarano and Mendoza-Denton’s ethnographies of Mexican@ and Chican@ teenagers in California and Arizona, respectively, illustrate the profound dislocations experienced by these young people as they navigate the multiple worlds of school, home, peers, and work. In each location their loyalties and identities are challenged and shaped in large part through language. Their findings, along with an analysis of ESL by the Mexicano/Chicano rap duo Akwid, are discussed in detail in chapter 4. Both the scholars and Akwid show how in spite of these dislocations and lack of affirmation of their identities by adults and authorities, young people of Mexican descent have developed their own linguistic codes and identities. These are best expressed in their popular culture from banda to hip-hop and other musical subcultures. Importantly, the dislocations and denigrations of identity experienced by these youth lead them to seek self-knowledge outside of traditional Mexican or U.S. culture. They often identify with, and speak from, the subject position of members of the

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Hip Hop Nation. This subject position is postcolonial, postindustrial, and postmodern. Through hip-hop, colonized subaltern subjects speak from the margins. The postindustrial society inherited by these youth shapes their identities and language as well. They have grown up in the working- and underclasses in urban environs lacking adequate services, jobs, and educational opportunities. Their places are filled with social and environmental toxins ranging from violence, drugs, the threat of deportation, and crime to poisonous chemicals and polluted air.10 Their sense of place is embedded within their identities and language as illustrated in much of their expressive culture and music. The HHN also mines a wide-ranging cultural field to form a cultural pastiche or bricolage that serves the interests of its postcolonial, postmodern subjects. The cultural field from which Chican@s/Mexican@s draw to develop language and identity is no longer limited to the Mexican/Chican@ cultures of their parents. They borrow, adopt, and adapt the cultures of many peoples. Importantly, they look toward and interact with black American youth to form Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL) and identities as hip-hop headz. The next section explores this important aspect of language and identity development for today’s Chican@/Mexican@ youth.

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Beyond the Race, Class, and Gender Matrix

Margaret Andersen and Patricia Hill Collins (1998) critique our commonplace understandings of diversity that do nothing to change the material conditions in which people of color and other marginalized people exist. Liberal “diversity” fails to examine power. They write: “At the same time that diversity is more commonly recognized, however, these same groups continue to be defined as ‘other’; that is, they are perceived through dominant group values, treated in exclusionary ways, and subjected to social injustice and economic inequality” (1). The liberal notion of diversity is one of cultural pluralism. Such an approach concludes that we should celebrate differences in cultural traditions but not address things such as racism, colonialism, and patriarchy. Alternatively, Andersen and Hill Collins argue, we should aim to understand how race, class, gender, sexuality, etc., frame people’s lives. “Race, class, and gender are fundamental axes of society and, as such, are critical to understanding people’s lives, institutional systems, contemporary social issues, and the possibilities for social change” (3). They propose a concept for understanding how the legacies of colonialism, racism, and patriarchy have created the various social categories that make up “diversity” and the inequality based on that system. They explain that the “matrix of domination” “posits multiple, interlocking levels of domination that stem from the societal configuration of race, class, and gender relations” (3).

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Andersen and Hill Collins make a pointed and useful critique of the dominant liberal diversity paradigm. However, the concept fails to interrogate the very conceptual framework that maintains the ideology of domination. In other words, they accept the terms of the discourse as laid out by those in power. Concepts such as race, gender, nationality, and sexuality are accepted as given. Analyses of race, class, gender, and sexuality are important since they really do affect how people live. However, it is important for marginalized people to not accept their marginalization and the definitions that the ruling classes have imposed. Like hip-hop headz, we should recognize the power of language and argue forcefully for the right to live through our own languages and cultures. The ideas of “linguistic equanimity” and “linguistic liberation” draw our attention to the language and cultural politics of much of hip-hop (Alim 2006). Linguistic equanimity and liberation mean that the language-use practices of linguistic minorities are valued on a par with the prestige language (SAE, in the case of the United States) and that users of non-prestige languages are free to maintain, develop, and create language as they need. Listening to emcees and participating in hip-hop culture exemplifies another way of seeing and speaking about contemporary human social relations.

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Hip Hop and the Polycultural

Prashad (2001) develops the idea of the polycultural to describe black and Asian diasporic peoples. His history of the Indian Ocean region shows that Asians and Africans have been exchanging, adopting, adapting, and influencing each other’s cultures and co-creating culture for hundreds of years. Prashad’s study of black-Asian interaction utilizes Robin Kelley’s thoughts on the polycultural nature of everyone, including black people. Kelley (2003) explains that We were “polycultural,” and I’m talking about all peoples in the Western world. It is not skin, hair, walk, or talk that renders black people so diverse. Rather, it is the fact that most of them are products of different “cultures”—living cultures, not dead ones. These cultures live in and through us everyday, with almost no self-consciousness about hierarchy or meaning. “Polycultural” works better than “multicultural,” which implies that cultures are fixed, discrete entities that exist side by side—a kind of zoological approach to culture. Such a view obscures power relations but often reifies race and gender differences.

In essence, Kelley wants us to expand our thinking about black history and the histories of race by noting how essentialist notions of race are inaccurate. Our “blood” and our cultures have been mixing for millennia. While many, including

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white supremacists and black racial purists, might find the notion that we are all related in complex ways frightening, given that their entire identities and sometimes livelihoods depend on notions of racial purity, Kelley celebrates the polycultural as a way to redefine blackness and race that includes liberatory possibilities. He explains: “To acknowledge our polycultural heritage and cultural dynamism is not to give up our black identity. It does mean expanding our definition of blackness, taking our history more seriously and looking at the rich diversity within us with new eyes.” Seeing race and identity through the lens of polyculturalism allows people to go beyond the definitions of race, subjectivity, nationalism, and gender imposed by the ruling elites. It means seeing black people, Mexican-origin people, and all others as the incredibly diverse and complex people that they are, and not the racial stereotypes that they must endure in the current racial order. Importantly, for our immediate concerns about Mexican identity, Kelley asks: “How do we understand the zoot suit—or the conk—without the pachuco culture of Mexican American youth, or low riders in black communities without Chicanos? How can we discuss black visual artists in the interwar years without reference to the Mexican muralists, or the radical graphics tradition dating back to the late nineteenth century, or the Latin American artists influenced by surrealism?” Kelley’s list of interactions and cultural exchanges between African and Latin American–origin peoples could include musics such as rap, jazz, rock-n-roll, mariachi, and salsa, and food such as barbacoa and menudo, among many, many other examples in the Americas. Hip-hop manifests polyculturalism in that its aesthetics, worldview, epistemology, ontology, and cosmology come from multiple sources (Hoch 2007). Hoch’s “Toward a Hip-Hop Aesthetic” argues that hip-hop’s origins, while indebted to African Americans, should be understood as a product of “the polycultural social construct of New York City in the 1970s” (351). The African diaspora plays a significant role, but hip-hop would have been a very different thing had it not been created primarily in the Bronx. The complex array of different peoples and cultures and modes of cultural exchanges and influences in the Bronx from the early 1970s through the early 1980s meant that the kids creating hip-hop drew from lots of cultural materials. They were polycultural. Hoch shows that the hip-hop graffiti aesthetic stems from the enforcement of a certain writing style in woodshop and printing courses in New York City high schools, the reclaiming of public space, and the criminalization of the art form in the late 1970s and 1980s. The aesthetics of hip-hop music, especially the centrality of the DJ early in hip-hop history, come from Jamaican sound system–dancehall culture and the development of recording and sampling technology by Japanese electronics companies. The dance aesthetic of the b-boy came from multiple and varied dance styles throughout the Caribbean as well as urban social conditions of the time. The lyrical part of hip-hop, the emceeing,

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also has multiple roots, including toasting, plena, blues, call-and-response, Black Arts Movement poetry, and corporate demand. As hip-hop culture moved to the U.S. West, Chican@s, Filipinos, Chinese, and others contributed to hip-hop’s growth (Israel 2002; McFarland 2008b; Spirer 1997). Today, the multiple manifestations of hip-hop all over the United States and throughout the globe, the Global Hip Hop Nation or GHHN, show the ways in which polyculturalism and new millennial mestizaje create distinct hip-hop cultures in the differing contexts of a given diaspora. So, for example, Mexican hip-hop in Mexico City will differ from Mexican hip-hop in Chicago or Los Angeles. Hip-hop communities and hip-hop headz in differing locales such as Los Angeles or Houston maintain much of the aesthetics and worldview of the broader Hip Hop Nation in the United States. However, they are distinct, because they live in different places and spaces among different groups of people, and with slightly different histories with white authorities and each other. This aspect of polyculturalism explains some of the differing Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop identities explored in this book. Since I will be addressing Chican@s of the HHN, it is important to examine the historical relationships between New World Africans and Amerindians. Hip-hop is most certainly a creation of the African diaspora, even if its origins are more complex and polycultural than most think. Mexican culture owes a great debt to its tercera raíz (third root): African culture (McFarland 2006a). The continued development of each of the diasporas in the United States reveals how each affected the other in varying degrees in different parts of the country. The polycultural creation of twenty-first-century Mexican- and African-diasporic peoples and cultures, especially hip-hop, is important to understanding Chican@/Mexican@ identity today.

Chicano History in Brown and Black

When discussing my work on Chican@ rap and hip-hop culture, I am often asked by Chican@s and non-Chican@s a variation of the following question: Why do so many Chican@s readily participate in black culture? While I should have been prepared to answer this question, given that all my life I have been asked why I personally was “into” black music by friends and family who believed that being a person of Mexican descent in this country meant listening to Mexican rancheras or ballads, always eating Mexican food, going to Catholic Mass, and associating only with other Chican@s, I didn’t really know how to respond. As in all those years I spent as a preteen and adolescent, when I preferred the sounds of Stevie Wonder to those of mariachis and b-boying to the Mexican polka, I found myself trying to justify a practice that comes “naturally” to many late-twentieth-century youth of Mexican

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descent in the United States. Not until I began putting the finishing touches on my first book did I start to formulate an adequate response to this question. Perhaps the most important and most misunderstood cultural influence on Chican@s/Mexican@s has been that of the African diaspora, especially African American culture. The lack of recognition of this leaves a gaping hole in our understanding of ourselves. Recently, Chican@ and other scholars have begun to uncover the hidden relationship between members of the African and Mexican diasporas. Hernandez Cuevas (2004) begins his investigations into this relationship in the sixteenth century and continues into the cultural period of the Mexican Revolution, while scholars such as Luis Alvarez (2008), Gaye Theresa Johnson (2002), Anthony Macías (2008), Laura Pulido (1996, 2006) and Mark Sawyer (2005) have revealed the multiple and complex ways in which Chican@s and black Americans have encountered and influenced one another over the course of the twentieth century. The tropes of Spanish conquest, indigenous resistance, the Mexican-American War, the Mexican Revolution, mestizaje and la raza cósmica, the Chicano Movement, and the Aztecs and neo-indigenism have overdetermined our understanding of Chican@/Mexican@ history and identities. As a result, the multifaceted and polycultural nature of Chicanidad/Mexicanidad, especially its African aspect, remains invisible. In order to school11 the reader on the perspective guiding this work, I highlight a number of important historical moments in which the African diaspora has intervened in the development of Chican@/Mexican culture. The racial classification system established during the Spanish colonial era illustrates the importance of Africa and Africans to our biological and cultural makeup. Spaniards’ obsession with race is evidenced in the pains they took to label and describe the various combinations of Spanish, Mesoamerican, and African “blood.” Casta paintings depict this racial classification system. Vaughn (2005) argues convincingly that one’s degree of blackness was central to the racial classification of the Spaniards during the colonial period (in contrast to later periods in Mexican history). He writes: Importantly, in contradistinction to the later national period, in which almost no mention of Blacks is made, the colonial casta system was obsessed with blackness. If we consider fourteen of the most commonly cited categories. . . . ten of them involve some degree of Black ancestry. . . . It thus appears that the specific quantity of “black blood,” however small, was crucial to the imagination of the racial categories. (133)

Ship records and other historical documents put the number of Africans brought as slaves “legally” to Mexico at two hundred thousand (Vaughn 2005, 118). There could be as many as three times that number, since the official numbers are likely to

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have missed “illegal” transport of slaves and “legal” transport that was not properly documented. These hundreds of thousands of Africans and their descendants have had a profound influence on Mexican culture, yet their importance remains largely unknown. Marco Polo Hernandez Cuevas’s important study African Mexicans and the Discourse on Modern Nation (2004) begins to fill a gap in our knowledge of Mexicanidad/Chicanidad. His book offers two valuable lessons: first, Africans and their culture greatly influenced Mexican culture and people from the earliest days of the Spanish colonial period; second, forces such as anti-black racism and the development of the myths of Spanish-indigenous mestizaje and la raza cósmica led to the invisibility and denial of Africans and their culture in Mexican history. Hernandez Cuevas shows how many of the iconic symbols and cultural practices that many associate with Mexico and Mexicanness result from interactions between Africans, indigenous Mexicans, and Spaniards. He argues forcefully that many others originate in African and/or Afro-Cuban culture. Iconic Mexican foodstuffs such as menudo can be traced to Africa. The working-class Mexican affinity for using the verb chingar in multiple and colorful ways has Bantu origins. Chingar is particularly telling, since the idea of conquest in the minds of many Mexican-origin people and scholars of Mexicanidad and Chicanidad is inextricably linked to rape. The symbolic mother of Mexicans, Doña Marina or la Malinche, is sometimes referred to as la chingada and often degraded as the one who sold out indigenous Mexicans to the Spaniards. This notion of female betrayal has served as a major trope of gender and gender relations in Mexican/Chican@ culture, especially its music (Castillo 1994; Herrera-Sobek 1990; McFarland 2008a). In addition, a determining aspect of Chican@/Mexican identities has been as the bastard child of the Spanish father—or as we often colorfully put it, we are hijos de la chingada, sons and daughters of the raped one. Particularly important for a discussion of identity as rendered through Chican@ music is Hernandez Cuevas’s analysis of the creation of fandango, mariachi, and jarocho. Each of these musics has become symbolic of Mexicanidad. None is more emblematic of Mexican national culture than the colorful dresses of ballet folklórico and the charro outfit of the mariachi. Yet few know that the charro and the china poblana dress (china poblana is a colloquialism referring to a black woman from Puebla) are indebted to the African encounter with indigenous Mexicans. The beat that is pounded out by the dancers performing the jarabe tapatio is played on the Afro-Cuban tarima. The tarima is a wooden platform upon which dancers play rhythms with their feet. This practice of zapateando is paralleled today in tap dancing and black fraternity stepping—all, of course, with origins in African diasporic cultures. The origins of the tarima resonate with hip-hop. From the perspective of the

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Spanish colonial elite, the enslaved Africans in the Caribbean had to be ideologically as well as physically controlled. In order to dominate the colonized, it is important that “the cultural expression of a community must be managed so as to promote acceptable behavior” (Ball 2011, 48). From the perspective of the colonizer, then, the musical culture of the African must be destroyed in order to better control them. During the process of cultural destruction, the colonizer also substitutes his musical cultures and images of the colonized and colonizer. In this way, the colonizer determines the understanding that the African population has of itself and of the colonizer. The colonizer’s superior position becomes so naturalized and normalized that the colonized population begins to believe in the superiority of Europeans and European culture (Ball 2011). In many cases, European authorities, threatened by African music, outlawed drums. The tarima substituted for the illegal drum. In this way, Afro-Cubans resisted colonial authority and maintained African musical traditions. Similarly, central aspects of hip-hop culture, including graffiti, the mixtape, and sampling, are extralegal or illegal practices that challenge today’s dominant authorities and understandings of ownership and cultural property. In each case, European authorities have attempted to contain and control the musical cultures that provide sustenance to the African diaspora.12 Why is this important information about the African origins of Mexicans unknown to most of us? Hernandez Cuevas (2004) and Cesareo Moreno (2006) lay the blame, in part, on José Vasconcelos, who as minister of education after Mexican Independence aggressively put forth his raza cósmica thesis. The thesis presents Mexicans as a new cosmic race that, due to the mixing of the best of Spanish and indigenous cultures, would prove to be a model for a new and more just civilization. While many celebrated the idea of Mexican identity rooted in la raza cósmica, especially as a counter to the notion of Mexicans as hijos de la chingada, Hernandez Cuevas points out that Vasconcelos’s overemphasis on the Spanish-indigenous nature of Mexican racial and cultural mestizaje hid the contribution of Africans. For decades, this writing out of the African presence meant that Mexicans could see themselves as something other than members of the African diaspora while seeing Africans and black Americans as racial others. This erasing of Africanidad from our Mexicanidad continued through the Golden Age in Mexican cinema. Heroic characters played by Vicente Fernandez or Pedro Infante were light-skinned Mexicans of Spanish blood. Servants, tragic figures, and the treacherous were of darker hues (Mexican Fine Arts Center Museum 2006).13 While few Mexicans/Chican@s consciously relate to Africa as a pillar of Mexican culture and identity, musical and other cultural movements throughout the twentieth century maintained close ties between the Mexican and African diasporas. Anthony Macías’s (2008) extensive study of Chican@ music and dance culture in Los Angeles

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during the middle part of the twentieth century illustrates how Mexican culture in diaspora continued to evolve along its polycultural path as urban black and brown youth encountered each other in dancehalls and concert stadiums. Macías’s analysis of “Mexican mojo” begins in the Swing Era and ends in the late 1960s. His analysis shows that “Mexican American and African American cultures were mutually constitutive in wartime and postwar Los Angeles” (2). He, like Hernandez Cuevas, challenges nationalist and assimilationist frameworks for understanding Chican@ identity. Importantly, he writes in the introduction that “both assimilationist and nationalist arguments could be seen as flights from blackness.” A more accurate and polycultural rendering of Chican@ history and culture recognizes the interdependence of the Mexican and African diasporas in the United States. At the same time, this perspective allows us to go beyond seeing Chican@s as victims of Anglo or Spanish aggression, and see how our looking toward and making connections with black people challenged the arrogance of whiteness. As Macías asserts, “African American music and style proved to be an ideal model of both participation in and resistance to Anglo American society. Conversely, the detached attitude, or ‘studied indifference’ of the pachucos, and later, the cholos, resonated with disaffected blacks, as it eventually would with many white youths” (6). Luis Alvarez’s (2008) examination of zoot culture further challenges both the assimilationist model that centers whiteness in the lives of people of color and the Mexican/Chican@ nationalist model of mestizaje. Zoot-suiting was a multiracial affair. The style, music, and dance of youth culture in California during World War II resulted from a process of interaction, exchange, adoption, and adaptation of black and Chican@ youth culture and perspective. Alvarez notes that “Zoot suiters drew from a wide range of cultural influences that often extended far beyond their most immediate familial, neighborhood, and even ‘traditional’ cultural worlds. The predominately working-class youth . . . based their identities as young people in the United States at least in part on their many shared experiences with others” (4). The cultural politics of zoot culture demonstrates Chican@ and black resistance to their subordinate status in the United States, and how the polycultural model can be antiracist. Black, Chican@, white, and Asian zoot-suiters defied the segregationist sensibilities of the era. Each ethno-racial group was expected to stay in its place, separate from the influence of the others. Zoot culture and youth gatherings of zoot-suiters challenged this racism. Moreover, while newspapers and police and other governmental authorities demonized youth of color as violent and immoral, these youth used zoot style to creatively affirm one another. The dominant culture and many from a previous generation of Mexican and black Americans devalued youth of color. The youth resisted and used their style for self-valorization. Alvarez argues that zoot culture “was also a part of an outlook on and approach to life that

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helped them claim dignity in a society that routinely dehumanized them” (3). Zoot youth practiced a politics of refusal—a refusal to submit to denigrating stereotypes and discrimination, a refusal to conform, a refusal to be humiliated. At the same time, they asserted a positive body politics that used style and movement to seek a dignified existence and carve out a unique culture and unique identities. For Chican@s this new culture and identity was not Mexican or American but something altogether different. It was a polycultural identity rooted in lived experiences and interactions with black American youth. These same dignified identity-making practices are evident in hip-hop today. In addition to the Swing Era and zoot culture, Chican@s and blacks adopted and adapted each other’s cultures throughout the middle part of the twentieth century. Lowriding, graffiti, street culture and style, and West Coast hip-hop result from black-Chican@ encounters in Los Angeles and other places in the U.S. West and Southwest.14 Importantly, the Third World Movement, which found its most vocal adherents in Los Angeles and the San Francisco–Oakland area, brought together black, Latin@, and Asian activists who through working together and supporting each other’s efforts shared, adapted, and adopted aspects of each other’s worldviews and cultures. Laura Pulido’s important study Black, Brown, Yellow, and Left (2006) shows how the interethnic/interracial cultural politics of zoot-suiters, lowriders, and rock-n-rollers becomes a radical activist politics in the 1960s. According to Pulido, the Third World Left was “a network of organizations that drew on each other’s ideas” (3). While the Third World Left was not always coherent, and the various ethno-racial groups that made it up did not all share equal status, their development and successes resulted from intense interaction that would shape the leftist politics of people of color into the twenty-first century. Sawyer (2005) takes up where Pulido leaves off and shows how blacks and Latinos have cooperated in political struggles around racism and poverty in recent years, even while black and Latin@ “leaders” have quibbled over each other’s presence. These and other important historical moments point to how black-Mexican mutual influence altered Mexican/Chican@ understandings of themselves and their culture. In the United States in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, black, Mexican, and other Latin@ interaction occurs daily in many ways. The mutual influences are enormous, and thus we must recognize that the diversity within the Chican@ HHN results in large part from the long history of Mexican-black interaction.

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Why Chicano Hip Hop?

I agree with Habell-Pallán, who writes that “If you really want to examine everyday life, you have to talk about popular culture and how it functions in people’s lives. If you want to get to that point where you’re truly trying to understand people’s motivations, you have to talk about popular culture.” She argues further that “alternative/pop music is one of the few spaces where these issues are talked about, where there’s a counterdiscourse articulated against Proposition 187 and against the way Chicanas and Chicanos have historically lacked access to education and health care” (in Chabram-Dernersesian 2007, 55–56). We have to examine the expressive culture of youth of Mexican descent in the United States in order to understand how they respond to their positions as colonial subjects in late capitalist society, and to understand their struggles with a white-supremacist U.S. society that continues to marginalize and disempower them. Youth of Mexican descent in the United States examine and critique their world through their songwriting, graffiti, and other visual art, dance, and theater. An examination of hip-hop texts created by these youth offers the possibility of looking beyond Chican@/Mexican@ cultural production, such as corridos, conjunto, movement poetry, and a limited number of novels that have become part of the Chican@ cultural studies canon (David Roman in ChabramDernersesian 2007, 60). While these texts remain important, a thorough analysis of contemporary Chican@/Mexican@ youth culture is equally, if not more, important today. Yet no body of scholarship has been developed to understand it. Moreover, the Chican@ emcee is an organic intellectual who can speak to and for the masses of voiceless youth of Mexican descent. They not only express their desires and make identity claims but also make theory. Writing about similar border texts, Saldívar (1997, 9) argues that the works of many popular authors “are more perceptive than writings by many theorists of urban postmodernism in representing the ‘urban hardening’ of everyday life.” Chican@ hip-hop, especially rap music, can be seen as a form of “street ethnography” (127). Chican@/Mexican@ emcees engage in deep readings of their surroundings to theorize the processes of surveillance, hegemonic meaning-making, and containment found in U.S. barrios. Their theorizing challenges the orthodoxies of U.S. xenophobic nationalism and Chican@ cultural nationalism. Their ethnographies present pictures of a transnational, neocolonial, postindustrial America and point to a future in which people of color will no longer be numeric minorities but still may be subordinated. Their “freedom dreams” envision a utopic future where Chican@s/Mexican@s no longer suffer at the bottom of capitalist social hierarchies, and provide strategies for how to get there. We should see Chican@ hip-hop as an “emergent Chicano/a oppositional

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practice. . . . [They] are simultaneously sites of ethno-race, class, gender, sexuality, and transnational identity” (128). Many, though clearly not all, young people of Mexican descent have developed a “differential oppositional consciousness” that is always suspicious of authority and power. Chican@ hip-hop and other youth culture is one of the few places where they express oppositional consciousness. Chican@ hip-hop and the oppositional consciousness expressed therein appeals to hundreds of thousands of Mexican-origin youths who buy the compact discs, view YouTube videos, go to hip-hop shows, create their own hip-hop, and exchange information and ideas about hip-hop via the Internet and in small group conversations.

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CHA PTER 2

Barrio Logos: The Sacred and Profane Word of Chicano Emcees

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In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. —John 1:1–5

Logos is the word. It is truth. It is reason. It is the logic by which a people understand their world. It is epistemology, a way of knowing. The word is sacred. In the Popol Vuh the world was created through the act of speaking; so, too, in the Bible. Allah revealed the Qur’an to the Prophet Muhammad orally and in rhymed prose. Muslims sing their word prayers. Chican@/Mexican@ emcees, like their indigenous ancestors, sing their poems. Chicano rap is twenty-first-century flor y canto, flower and song (Arteaga 1997). While not always pretty, it is beautiful speaking that comes from the heart. Importantly, the language of Chicano rap is an organic creation reflecting the experiences and perspectives of young people living in the postindustrial barrio. The language they create and the stories they tell are n

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first-hand accounts of their lives—border narratives that allow them to resist their marginalization and invisibility1 at the hands of a society that sometimes values them only for their labor power. Hip-hop and its unique language serve as a mouthpiece for the oppressed all over the world (Ball 2011, 22). Nowhere is this more true than within the Chican@ Hip Hop Nation (ChHHN). This chapter is intended to help the reader understand key concepts in Chican@ hip-hop. It serves as an introduction to the ChHHN’s general orientation toward language, place, gender, religion and spirituality, race, criminality, and politics.

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The Place of the Word in the Chican@ Hip Hop Nation

In hip-hop parlance or Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL),2 “word” has multiple meanings. When someone speaks or raps the truth or says something profound or particularly important, an audience member or interlocutor might say emphatically, “Word!” The respondent offers this exclamation as encouragement and thanks. The respondent says, “You are right” and/or “Thanks for this message.” Word also can be used as an interrogative. Someone might respond to something another has said in conversation with the question “Word?” Is that right? Are you serious? Some say at the end of a verse or song, “Word!” Here they suggest that what they are saying is the unadulterated truth. As in the Bible, the spoken word here is the truth; it is real. “Word” can also be used to suggest that a man’s word is his guarantee. Thus, some say, “Word is bond.” The power of the Word is highly respected in many traditions. The Word as rapped in hip-hop is related to the Western African concept of nommo. Cheryl Keyes (2008, 8) examines the role that nommo has played in black survival in the Americas. She quotes Ceola Baber, who writes that nommo “generates the energy needed to deal with life’s twists and turns; sustains our spirits in the face of insurmountable odds [and] transforms psychological suffering into external denouncements. . . . and [into] verbal recognition of self-worth and personal attributes.” Black American oral tradition stems from this belief in the sacred power of the word. Hip-hop as an extension of this black language (BL) tradition is the latest manifestation of nommo. Moreover, “hip-hop” implies the importance of knowledge through language and movement. The term “hip” derives from the Senegalese language of Wolof. The term xipi (pronounced like “hippie” but with a more guttural “j” sound) “means to have one’s eyes wide open, to be alert, to know what’s happening” (Walker 2001, 57). To be hip is to be knowledgeable. If you are “hip to the jive” you “really know what’s going on . . . you can distinguish what is from what may only appear to be”

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(57).3 And, of course, “hop” is movement. So, hip-hop is knowledge and movement or knowledge in movement. The song and video “Hip Hop Lives” (2007), produced by Marly Marl and hip-hop artist and scholar KRS-One, adds to our understanding of “hip-hop.” In the first verse of the song, KRS-One explains: Hip means to know. It’s a form of intelligence. To be hip is to be update and relevant. Hop is a form of movement. You can’t just observe a hop you got to hop up and do it. Hip and hop is more than music. Hip is the knowledge. Hop is the movement.

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Hip and hop is intelligent movement or relevant movement.

Like many others, including Afrika Baambaata and the Universal Zulu Nation, KRS-One argues that hip-hop is “helping oppressed people.” His definition mirrors Walker’s arguments about black language use practices; Walker writes that it is “a linguistic complex focusing around issues of survival crucial for Africans and their descendants during the period of slavery when the words appeared in North America. The ability of enslaved people to communicate in a linguistic system unknown to their enslavers was an obviously useful survival tool.” Language use practices of African-origin people in the New World, including black American youth in the inner cities of the United States at the end of the century, “represent a style of resistant communication . . . one of many ways of creating spaces of relative freedom” (Walker 2001, 58). It is no wonder, then, that young Chican@s in poverty-stricken inner cities picked up hip-hop as a tool of expression and identity and blended it with musical and cultural traditions found in Mexican America. Chicano emcees are interlingual. They use “English, Spanish, caló (Chicano slang), and perhaps Nahuatl” (Arteaga 1997, 8) as well as black vernacular and hip-hop slang. They move between many languages in their rap poems and performances. Chicano language, like Chicanos themselves, is hybrid—or as Arteaga puts it, “Hybridity is the mode of both Chicano poem and Chicano subject” (8). This hybridity challenges taken-for-granted and imposed knowledge about race, authenticity, and purity. Chicano resistance to colonial domination in their very being and language allows for “alternate possibilities for apprehending the world” (8). Chican@ hip-hop has an additional antecedent in the well-known Aztec phrase popularized during the Chicano Movement: “Por mi raza, hablaré el espíritu” (For my people, I will speak the Spirit). Chicano emcees are postmodern tlamatinimes (or Aztec poets) “who create and transmit culture and who work the myths that bind a people” (Arteaga, 16). And like poets past, Chicano emcees create and transmit culture and myth

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in their language—the hybrid, interlingual language of hip-hop. The postmodern tlamatinimes resemble the African griots of years past who know that the energy of action is in speech, and thus release nyama (power) with every utterance (Keyes 2008, 6). Chican@/Mexican@ emcees draw from the much older cultural traditions of West Africa and Mesoamerica. In each of these cultural antecedents, the sacredness and power of the spoken word is highly valued. These emcees rely on another source of knowledge—one that is place-based and situated. Devon Peña explains the importance of place for people of Mexican descent in the United States. In the introduction to Chicano Culture, Ecology, Politics (1998, 11) he writes: “Place—as articulated through peoples’ contradictory spatial and social locations—is a primary repository for human constructions of meaning and identity. Humans create meaning in part by inscribing feelings and memories onto particular sites or shapes of their natural and cultural landscapes.” Raul Homero Villa (2001, 7) theorizes how space and place are integral aspects of barriology: “a playful but serious promotion of the cultural knowledge and practices particular to the barrio.” He argues that “barriology evokes a whole range of knowledge and practices that form the historical, geographical, and social beingin-consciousness of urban Chicano experience” (8). Hip hop as a global youth culture articulates notions of identity and knowledge through locality. Similarly, Pennycook and Mitchell (2009, 25) borrow Somali-Canadian emcee K’Naan’s concept of the “dusty foot philosopher.” K’Naan explains: “Dusty foot philosopher means the one that’s poor, lives in poverty but lives in a dignified manner and philosophizes about the universe and talks about things that well-read people talk about, but they’ve never read or traveled on a plane.” The dusty foot philosopher analyzes the world from her/his class-based and place-based experience. Language, naturally, is central to a hip-hop barriology that we see emerge as a result of place-based means of developing identity. Olguín, examining an earlier example of this process, Chicano pinto (convict) culture, adds to our understanding of Chicano barriology. He explains that “Chicana/o Spanish abbreviations or deliberate ‘misspellings’ are complex signifiers that enable users to symbolically claim something as their own while simultaneously signaling how the object itself is transformed by this Chicana/o claim to it” (Olguín 2010, 24). Chican@ emcees and other members of the Hip Hop Nation use abbreviations such as Califas (California) and la pinta (prison) throughout their discursive practices. Such examples disrupt not only the English language of the colonizing gringo, but also the Spanish language of their predecessors. Chican@ emcees and the HHN invoke “the conscious and strategic use of language” or speaker agency (Alim 2006, 16). The conscious use of language found in HHNL reflects the standpoint of a late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century generation of working-class, urban black

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and brown “Americans.” Like the coded and highly stylized black American languageuse practices of previous generations, HHNL represents a resistant stance toward governmental and white/Anglo authority. HHNL is decolonizing. The language-use practices of emcees and others in the HHN reflect their understanding that language is power. As Alim (2006, 10) notes, “Words are far more than parts of speech; they’re weapons of mass culture to be deployed in the cultural combat that we, invariably, as humans, find ourselves in.” Importantly for this study, language is also intimately linked to identity. Chican@/Mexican@ and other emcees employ certain language-use practices to create, define, and firmly establish an identity. Again, Alim’s work is instructive as he writes that “The HHN’s linguistic consciousness refers to HHNL speakers’ conscious use of language to construct identity” (77). Far from simply being foul-mouthed illiterates, hip-hop headz (members of the HHN), including Chican@/ Mexican@ emcees, use language in multiple, complex, and creative ways to critique their society, examine their existence, resist oppression, make identity claims, and imagine a better future. Sarkar’s (2009, 152) observation about multilingual emcees and hip-hop in Quebec applies to the Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop context as well. The author writes that emcees in Quebec “introduce a whole new set of multiple, hybrid and fluid identities. . . . Like all Hip Hoppers acknowledging the importance of being grounded in one’s own ethnic origins, [they] still strongly resist being pinned down to societally imposed identities.” Their language relies on a place-based situational knowledge common to many people of Mexican descent and many members of the Hip Hop Nation around the globe.

The Streets, La Calle, El Barrio, the Hood

Chican@ studies scholarship from literature, ethnomusicology, sociology, history, and political science has shown that Chican@ identity rests on our tenuous yet intimate relationship to place. Mexican@s-cum-Chican@s were an agropastoral people well into the twentieth century. As descendants of a thousands-of-years-old sophisticated agricultural people, Chican@s developed an earth-based science, spirituality, social organization, expressive culture, and identity.4 The land, la tierra, was central to Mexican@-cum-Chican@ life. For many, la tierra remains a source of identity. In addition to the cultural patrimony handed to Chican@s over generations from indigenous ancestors, la tierra takes on added significance as Mesoamericans-cumMexican@s-cum-Chican@s become colonial subjects first of the Spaniards then the Anglo-Americans. La tierra as life force becomes la tierra robada, the stolen land. Mexican@s-cum-Chican@s as a colonized people develop identity in large part from memories of the relationship to stolen homeland. Villa (2000, 1) makes this point

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forcefully in his study of place in Chican@ culture and literature. He argues that “the experience of being displaced in multiple ways from a perceived homeland has been an essential element of Chicanos’ social identity in this country.” For Chican@s of the Hip Hop Generation, place takes on additional importance. Cheryl Keyes’s 2002 book, Rap Music and Street Consciousness, alerts us to the centrality of “the streets” to hip-hop. She defines the streets as “a subculture of the urban milieu that operates by its own rules, economics, lifestyle, language, and aesthetics” (2). She argues that the streets are an institution as important as the church, schools, or family for urban black youth (29). In Roc the Mic Right (2006, 6), Alim adds to Keyes’s argument about the centrality of the streets to hip-hop. He writes: “Foregrounding the streets as the site, sound, and soul of hiphoplogical activity allows one to gain a more thorough understanding of the origins and sociocultural context of Hip Hop Culture, which is critical to understanding language use within this Nation.” The Hip Hop Nation has developed a unique epistemology and ontology through their lived experience in “the streets.” Citing KRS-One, Alim (2006, 72) argues further that “the language of Hip Hop culture [is] ‘street language,’ and [KRS-One] proposes that ‘Hiphoppas’ speak an Advanced Street Language.” The HHN’s cultural politics and identity stem from this place-based street experience—an experience of dislocation and empowerment, criminalization and liberation. The titles to numerous Chicano rap songs illustrate the centrality of the streets. Among the recent songs with “street” or allusions to the “streets” in the title are the following: “La Calle” (DJ Payback Garcia and Rasheed 2008), “Adopted by the Streets” (Thief Sicario 2007), “Unorthodox Blocks” (DJ Muggs and Sick Jacken 2007), “Cruxican Street Music” (Los Crux 2008), “Streets Up” (Psycho Realm and Street Platoon 2005), “The Streets Are Hot” (Sicko Soldado 2008), “Perros de las Calles” (Kinto Sol 2005), “Concrete Jungles” (Psycho Realm 2003), and “Street Shit” (Lee Coc 2008). When Chicano emcees speak about “the streets,” they address both barrioization (“a complex of dominating social processes” that cause residential and social segregation) and barriology (Villa 2000, 4). Ben Olguín’s discussion of Raul Salinas’s representation of his home in his famous “A Trip through the Mind Jail” addresses this point from an earlier generation of working-class Chicano youth: the pachuco. He writes that home “becomes both a product of U.S. hegemony and the site of counterhegemonic signifying practices” (Olguín 2010, 133). This barrioization and hegemony is reflected in the many references to police and state repression. The pigs, chota, or 5–0 represent the social control of space or law effect (Villa, 3) that challenges Chican@ use of space and criminalizes them. On the other hand, “the streets” represent creative agency in which Chican@s turn the detritus found in the streets into positive and self-affirming culture. Following Forman’s work on the relationship between race and place in hip-hop, we see

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that emcees are some of the few who speak about their neighborhoods in complex ways. More than just the “bad neighborhoods,” “these geographies are inhabited and bestowed with value; they are understood as lived places and localized sites of significance, as well as being understood within the market logic” (Forman 2000, 67). Chicano working-class youth in the HHN identify with the rasquache aesthetic that Ybarra-Frausto (1991, 156) defined as an “attitude of survival and inventiveness . . . resilience and resourcefulness [that] spring from making do with what’s at hand.” Rasquachismo is an attitude and “a visceral response to lived reality.” Chican@/ Mexican@ members of the HHN use this “underdog perspective” to turn “the streets” into a home. Chicano/Mexicano emcees use police sirens, gunshots, hydraulics, squealing tires, car motors, and other sounds found in their barrios to accompany musical samples, drums, and electronic and computer instruments, in order to critique power and make place-based identity claims. Forman’s (2002, 67) insight about hip-hop generally can be applied to the ChHHN. He writes that “in the music and lyrics the city is an audible presence, explicitly cited and digitally sampled in the reproduction of the aural textures of the urban environment.” DJ Payback Garcia and Rasheed (2008) exemplify this critique and identity claim in the song “La Calle.” DJ Payback’s music perfectly sets the stage for the lyrical performance of Rasheed. The song is bass-heavy, suggesting danger, with sparse melodies typical of hip-hop music production. The guitar and electronic melodic figures are high in the music register and light, suggesting the fun of street life. Squealing tire sounds are added to enhance the effect. The lyrics, including the following excerpts, utilize a number of tropes typical of Chicano emcees’ understanding and identification with the streets: Chota, po-po fast in la calle. I put the work up in the trunk and hit the highway . . . The streets are hot with heat like they havin’ a cook-off. Get your head took off in the middle of the night when you look off . . . Slide in the turning lane, blunt burnin’, system boomin’, shakin’ up your neighborhood. Po-po lookin’ like “whatcha doin’?” Houston consider me a general customs make a mil with these minerals . . . with a bag full of cocaine . . .

The elements of containment, of barrioization, such as the chota and po-po (the police), are central to the experience of Chicanos in Houston. Gun violence is always a threat due to the nature of barrio streets (“streets are hot with heat”). The line “I put the work up in the trunk and hit the highway” suggests that drug dealing is a way

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to gain financial empowerment for some in the barrios of Houston. As racism and deindustrialization have limited legitimate opportunities for barrio youth to make a living and prosper, the illicit economy has become a forced option that increases the danger of “street life.” At the same time that “the streets” represent struggle, they can also be a source of enjoyment. The time-honored practice of cruising the streets in a customized car is highlighted in the song. Along with his cruising, Rasheed enjoys the pleasures of smoking marijuana while listening to music and claiming space (“blunt burnin’, system boomin’ / shakin’ up your neighborhood”). Luis Alvarez (2008, 242–43) draws a historical parallel between zoot culture and contemporary black and Latino youth practices of claiming space through loud music and style. He explains that hip hoppers . . . occupy public space, in the form of graffiti on public walls or subway trains and the pounding bass of car stereos on city streets as strategies to make themselves seen and heard in a time when the economic, political, and social mainstream encourage their invisibility and silence. . . . Through their use of the body and technology . . . nonwhite youth have claimed for themselves at least a part of the dignity that the world in which

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they live has taken away from them.

In essence, these youth claim the streets and reclaim their dignity with a sonic placazo. The placa or placazo is “a badge, tag, or other distinguishing sign [that] can come in a variety of visual and oral forms . . . [and] is used to mark or claim a space as one’s own” (Olguín 2010, 130). Chican@s/Mexican@s in the HHN such as Rasheed do not settle for the disempowering deterritorialization that history and current forms of social control of space foist on them. Instead they reterritorialize barrio streets through hip-hop cultural practices of graffiti, loud music, and b-boying. In doing so, they develop “alternative cartographies” of the city and provide one of the only places where there is an “in-depth examination and analysis of the spatial partitioning of race and the diverse experiences of being young and Black [or Brown] in America” (Forman 2000, 66). Chicano/Mexicano emcee identities are place-based in multiple ways. They identify with the mythos of Aztlán—the original homeland of Chican@s that approximates today’s U.S. Southwest, that land taken by the United States from Mexico after the Mexican-American War of 1846–1848. Chapter 3 examines Chican@ identification with Aztlán or la tierra robada in detail. Additionally, Chicano emcees’ relationship to their “American” national identity is addressed in chapter 5. I will limit my analysis here to the radically local place-based identities of most Chicano/ Mexicano emcees. These emcees, like others in the HNN, identify strongly with their hometowns. They exhibit a topophilia that challenges dominant representations of

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barrios. In song after song, they pay homage to their homes through shout-outs (brief recognition consisting of shouting a name), including naming their hometowns or their area codes. Many are even more localized than this. They identify with neighborhoods in their city, and even specific streets within their neighborhoods. This multilayered place-based identification exhibits Nagel’s (1996) notion of a multi-tiered identity in which our identities have many layers and levels, so that we can, at one and the same time, identify with our nation, race, region, city, gang, and street. The micro-level of the neighborhood or barrio is where many emcees structure their identities. Moreover, their knowledge is place-based or “situated.” Much of how they experience and understand the world results from their “being-in-place”—the interaction between their identities/subjectivities and their environment. As Peña (1998, 11) explains, such situated knowledge is a “dialectical relationship of humans to the biogeographical properties of place in which, over generations, the local culture accumulates a vast reservoir of knowledge dealing with the ecological limits of life in a specific locale.” Chican@ hip-hop tales of “urban hardening of everyday life” reflect the “limits of life” in the barrio. They examine and theorize barrioization. Their discussions of life, death, violence, guns, gangs, and family are the “reservoirs of knowledge” necessary for coping with barrioization. It is their place-based barriology. Juan Zarate confirms both barrioization and barriology, the displacement at the hands of the colonizer, and active, creative resistance and development of lifeways in urban Chican@/Mexican@ locales. His “El Santuario” (The Sanctuary) speaks to his barrio as a place of sanctuary in spite of the social ills caused by impoverishment. He begins speaking: “Bienvenidos, compa, a lo único lugar que nos entiende. Al veces es el peor, cabrón, pero aquí nos acepta” [Welcome, friend, to the only place that understands us. Sometimes it’s the worst, bastard, but here we are accepted]. Throughout the song, Zarate speaks to the problems found in his barrio. He explains that the wind speaks of misery (“el viento habla de miseria”) in this nightmare (“una pesadilla”) place where life can quickly end through violence (“la vida pronto se termina”). He shows us through creative use of metaphor that a great deal of “ignorance” results from barrioization. He raps “aquí la ignorancia ’sta embarazada con gemelos” [here, ignorance is pregnant with twins]. While barrio residents are born blessed, they often die a violent death. He expresses this with the following rhyme: “Nacimos con el santo de la espalda. Morimos con balazo en la espalda” (We are born with saints on our backs. We die with a gunshot in the back). But, el barrio is not just a place of victimization. Some in the barrio have a resistant spirit: “alma de Zapata.” According to Zarate, these are children of “crack,” “hip-hop,” “violence,” “adrenaline,” and “resistance.” They reside in the barrio where Che lives (“aquí el che vive”) and they pray to Saint Zapata (“le rezamos al santo de

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Zapata”). In his barrio, residents play basketball, write graffiti, drink, and smoke marijuana. In other words, they enjoy and express themselves. In the end, the barrio is his sanctuary. He was born there, lives there, and will return to die there. The chorus sums up this relationship to his home. He sings/raps: “El santuario, quieres o no quieres, / es el barrio. / Aunque no lo entiendes, /aquí nací, aquí vivir y aquí me vengo a morir.” The barrio, whether you love it or not, whether you understand it or not, is the sanctuary. It is home. It is the place that has shaped him and the place to which he always returns.

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La Pinta as Locale: Pintos, Psychos, Locos

Chican@s have been criminalized since 1848 and the ensuing years of contact between the newly colonized Mexican Americans and the colonizing and settling gringos. Olguín explains how in their efforts to justify their colonization of the West and taking of Mexican land, white authorities and settlers imposed this new master status upon Mexican Americans. In Alfredo Mirande’s landmark study Gringo Justice, he explains: “Chicanos have been labeled bandits and criminals because they have not passively accepted their economic and political exploitation” (quoted in Olguín 2010, 9). As such, today’s Chican@ working-class, poor, and barrioized youth, in and out of hip-hop, experience a violent environment that includes the criminal justice system and youth gangs and criminal activity. Convicts (pintos) and lumpenproletariat and working-class street youth (psychos and locos) experience the criminal justice system exemplified as la pinta, the cops (chota, 5-0), and illicit criminality in multiple and complex ways. The streets and the criminal justice system create an environment that fosters Chicano identities as psychos and locos. Psycho and loco identities are place-based and situated and reflect the colonial circumstances that have led to barrioization. The psycho/loco episteme, while specific to the experiences of the Chicano underclass, has influenced the broader ChHHN and young working-class Mexicans in the United States through a valuing of the rebellious spirit of the psycho. Many working-class and middle-class Mexicans in the United States encounter ideas and values associated with the psycho/loco through the consumption of music and other popular culture. While most are unlikely to participate in the criminal underground often discussed in Chicano street hop and gangsta rap, many of the political stances and worldviews of this sector of the Mexican population are being considered by a broad sector of the ChHHN and young U.S. Mexicans. Loco is defined by Thief Sicario in the song “La Prueba,” where he raps that “if you thug in the streets, you’re locote,” or a loco. Many psychos and locos end up in la

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pinta as pintos. As such, the environs and ecology of the prison are key factors in the knowledge and identity development of large numbers of hip-hop barrio youth and their friends and families. Olguín (2010, 24) explains how la pinta reflects a resistant worldview and identity. La pinta “suggests the existence of a distinct Chican@ outlaw subjectivity that challenges the authority of the penitentiary.” Pintos are convicts who refuse the oppressive power of the state. Pinto enjoys a highly valued place in the epistemology and ontology of Chicano convicts as opposed to the “inmate” who conforms to prison rules, regulations, and humiliating practices (29). Olguín explains further that “The self-referential use of the term ‘Pinta/o’ by Chicana/o Convicts also marks a specific moment in their process of concientizacion, or political awakening. . . . Calling oneself a pinto is itself a transgressive act of self-affirmation precisely because this utterance alludes to signifying practices that not only proclaim difference but model abjection as defiant, ennobling, and above all, enlightening” (123). Because pintos resist the pinta’s state-sanctioned institutionalization and control over them, they think about institutions and power from a unique perspective. Their desire to express themselves often leads to great writing. In an interview with Latina Beatz (2009), Thief Sicario examined the pinto’s and convict’s experience: To be real some of the greatest literary art of all time was made in prison . . . That’s a place where you only have yourself . . . Sitting in solitary for months and years at a time will either break you or make you unbreakable . . . You get a lot of time to think about every minute detail of your life and everything you’ve seen . . . Some of the smartest Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

most talented people I’ve ever met were in prison . . . I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for that shit . . . Hating the cops naturally led to hating the government and like I said with all the raw talent in there I was around a lot of creative people . . . See up in there they got some of the illest ’cause they do that shit from their heart . . . When you’re doing ten or twenty or life and you write rhymes or whatever you’re not doing that to get paid. The mainstream is not your focus . . . The songs you write are from your soul ’cause odds are that song will never be recorded, released or even heard outside them walls . . . Most these rappers out here, especially now, ain’t no threat . . . Those vatos in there those are some of sickest lyricists I’ve ever heard dead or alive . . . They should be doing this interview and not me . . .

The pinto poet is an ill lyricist or other type of writer because he comes from the heart and has a great deal of time to reflect on his life. Unlike the contemporary commercial rap artists, the pintos and convicts do not write for the market. Eschewing the market allows them to author lyrics with the sole intention of expressing what’s on their mind.5 It seems that Thief is exaggerating when he alludes to the pure artistic intent of pinto emcees. There are undoubtedly a number of rewards that come

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from good writing in prison, such as respect and change in status. Nonetheless, his analysis of time spent in prison on reflection and the creation of realistic, artistic stories in rhyme merits attention from scholars. These are the latest in a long line of pinto poets and writers. The psycho, loco, and pinto identities are often valued in Chicano hip-hop because they reflect the characteristics of a person who can make it in a crazy world. The streets, as discussed earlier, are often full of danger and hardship. One must often develop an aggressive, unemotional attitude in order to be ruthless enough to survive the hardships of barrioization. This attitude is similar to that found among black street youth, which we have come to call the “cool pose” (Majors and Billson 1993). This is the standpoint of the psycho. Psycho Realm examines this in the song “Sick Dogs” (1999). Over a very heavy and funky bass drum, ominous-sounding high-pitched melody, and an introduction that features growling dogs, Psycho Realm describes the psycho or “sick dog” and his environment. Attacking like packs of real sick dogs running wild, crazy Sick in the head get out of hand daily. Sick dogs got one screw missing. Are you a pelón, psyclone on a mission? . . . Drop your heat and protect yourself. Defend yourself. Stop the shoot up. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Tatted down saying “fuck the jura.” You’re a sick dog.

The sick dog violates societal norms and laws as he “gets out of hand” every day. He has mental problems (“got one screw loose”) that likely result from a form of post-traumatic stress disorder induced by living in the violent environment of the barrio.6 The sick dog uses gun violence as a way to protect himself (“stop the shoot up”). Like the pinto, he is resistant, as he displays opposition to authority by saying “fuck the jura [cops].” In addition to a rebellious attitude and critique of power and mental problems, the sick dog is bald (“pelón psyclone”) or has a very short haircut and has lots of tattoos (“tatted down”). Psycho Realm’s sick dog wears the badges of the resistant Chicano. Tattoos, tats, or tatuajes reflect an “oppositional posture” in which Chicanos and pintos, especially, attempt to take their bodies back from racist significations of the brown body, incarceration by the criminal justice system, and work as laborers under the capitalist system. Olguín’s (2010) study of Chicano prisoner culture and politics is again instructional as he describes the “placa episteme.” The placa is a marking or a

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badge that Chican@s use to signify a claim to a place or space. The tatuaje as placa reclaims the Chican@ body (121). The acts of self-mutilation deform the body and transform its significance from a commodity and/or commodity-producing machine to a liberated, spiritual, and political vessel (123). Tatuajes are central to the Chican@ hip-hop and street logos because they represent a collective transgression against barrioization. This form of writing symbolizes the collectivist epistemology at the heart of a resistant Chican@ street worldview. Olguín explains that in the context of la pinta, “transgression, as articulated through vernacular writing rituals such as tatuteando, thus becomes the ontological basis of the new counterhegemonic Chicana/o subject.” In a crazy world where Chican@s and their bodies are continuously criminalized, devalued, and dominated, the liberated Chican@ subject has little choice but to transgress the boundaries of dominant, racist societal propriety, law, and value. As pachucos did during the Jazz Age, the body and style are given new significance and meaning by pintos, psychos, and locos that to the dominant society are ugly, criminal, and unpatriotic, but to the new Chican@ subject are badges of honor to be worn with pride and dignity.7 Ironically, the tatuaje and the valorization of the rebel is fraught with contradictions. Often misguided rebellion leads to urban pathology and harmful criminality. In addition, their stylistic choices and means of self-expression identify them even more—at least in the minds of whites, authorities, and others—as criminal, violent, and harmful. The outlaw tatuaje contributes to a self-fulfilling prophecy of being labeled and contained as an outsider. The Chican@ hip-hop tatuaje comes in many varieties. The most common to the non-Chican@ population are gang tatuajes that signify allegiance to gangs, streets, and neighborhoods. Tats such as “13,” tear drops, and gang names are examples of such placas. These, however, are only a small part of the tats in the Chican@ hip-hop world. Many articulate unique spiritual perspectives born out of their Mexican Catholic upbringing, life in the calles of the barrio, and their barrioization. Names and pictures serve as memorials to loved ones, or expressions of love toward children and significant others. “Brown Pride,” Aztec calendars, Aztec warriors, and Mexican flags and colors represent racial pride and loyalty that can also be read as resistance to racial hierarchy and Anglo domination of Mexican people.8 The sick dog, psycho, and loco is aggressive, tough, and a survivor, the hypermasculine man. He is valued for these traits. He is the new transgressive subject, the postmodern social bandit. Often, however, Psycho Realm and other Chicano street-youth members of the HHN lament barrioization, the circumstances that create the psycho. To this end, “Sick Dogs” culminates with sounds of explosions and machine-gun and tank fire over a solemn, haunting church organ. More than simply valorizing barrio pathologies or the effects of barrioization,

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many Chicano emcees explore the existential conundrum they find themselves in as a result of the material conditions in which they live. Sicko Soldado’s “Double Life” (2008) is exemplary. In the chorus, he raps: What’s it all about, this life that I lead? What’s it all about? Is it all money? I try to be legit but my life is sick. Tempted to get that money quick. Stuck in the struggle I cannot quit. Living in a world I cannot fix. Anything I do I run the risk.

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What kind of life is this?

Sicko discusses the risk of living sick. He wants to become wealthy, happy, and safe, living a good life legally (“legit”). However, because of the many dangers of life in the barrios and the continued racism and other aspects of colonialism, and since his “financial structure isn’t golden,” he is tempted to live a violent and criminal life to survive in a “concrete maze.” This leads Sicko to examine life and ask the existential question “What’s it all about, this life that I lead?” In a world ruled by the value of money or capitalism, Sicko is compelled to ask: “What’s it all about? Is it all money?” He attempts to solve the problem posed by an upbringing that teaches an ethos not ruled by money, and the current reality of the barrio and broader world that worships and is dominated by money. He adapts a line from the Wu Tang Clan’s hit song “C.R.E.A.M.” (cash rules everything around me), rapping that “I was told that money isn’t everything but it rules everything around me.” He knows that greed is a major sin or transgression against morality when he says that you “kill for the wealth and you end up in hell” and “if you get greedy, you end up in the county [jail].” Yet, in order to attain the dream of wealth, it seems that the young working-class Chicano’s only resource is to engage in illegal or immoral acts. Thus, the existential dilemma that causes many to look for answers in religion and spirituality.

One/Dios: Chican@/Mexican@ Hip-Hop Spirituality

Sicko’s meditation on the contradictions of living loco or sick in the barrio reads like a prayer. He begins by saying, “If I wake up and I’m still alive, / I gotta thank God for this life of mine.” Throughout the song he asks questions of his God. He asks for answers to one of the most timeless questions in human history: What is the purpose of life? He says that he is searching for an answer from God as he raps

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referencing Johnny Cash and his famous song “I Walk the Line”: “Like Johnny Cash I’m walking a line / looking for a sign / I just can’t find.” Like many human beings, Sicko and other Chican@/Mexican@ emcees often turn to spirituality and religion for answers to ontological questions. Chican@/Mexican@ emcees develop unique hybrid belief systems that borrow from multiple spiritualities and religions. While most are nominally *Catholic like their parents and grandparents, their Catholicism is informed by indigenous spiritual traditions. Since I discuss indigenous spiritual traditions and Xicano identity in the chapter “Sonido Indígena,” I will focus here on other aspects of Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop spirituality, with emphasis on its polycultural nature. Many in the ChHHN express their spirituality in ways familiar to Mexican Catholics. They pray to God, wear rosaries, and revere saints. Their tattoos often reflect this orientation. Common tattoos include representations of la Virgen de Guadalupe, Christ, crosses, crucifixes, and saints. Album cover art and graffiti often utilize similar types of images that connect them both to their spirituality and to their ethnicity. Thief Sicario refers to Saint Desmus, the patron saint of thieves. Desmus or Dismas was a poor thief placed on a cross for his transgressions against the Roman empire. There he met Christ, a revolutionary figure who also transgressed against the dominant society, though in a different manner. Upon his death, Desmus was transformed by the power of Christ. Pintos often identify with both Desmus and Christ as oppressed figures who transcended their oppressor even as the oppressor tortured and/or killed them. As such, Christ is often the subject of Chican@ raps and tats. Speaking of the important pinto poet Raul Salinas and his tatuajes, Olguín explains that Salinas’s Cristo tatuaje “distinctly identifies him as a prototypical Christlike victim” (2010, 138). Similarly, Chicano emcees often see themselves as righteous figures fighting an oppressive system, and draw inspiration from interpretations of Christ as rebel and martyr. Thief ’s song “God Forgives” (2010) is “the Gospel of Desmus wrote by Thief Sicario.” Discussing the trials of the life of a barrioized Chicano engaged in criminal endeavors, Thief explains in the chorus that “God forgives but the streets, they don’t. / Visions seen in smoke are like screams of ghosts / sayin’ ‘Lord come help us / the older generation failed us.’ / So now we clash and blast. / The nature be rebellious. / God forgives but the streets, they don’t. / What a Thief had wrote is like screams of ghosts.” Many Catholics and former Catholics believe strongly in God’s forgiveness and redemption. Chican@ emcees believe that God will forgive their transgressions, especially given that they grew up in circumstances of barrioization inherited from previous generations (“the older generation failed us”) and are attempting to become “better.” Thief ’s song brings attention to the fact that criminals,

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pintos, and street youth are not necessarily godless sinners, but believers who have unique spiritualities. The criminal injustice system and racist barrioization created a situation described by Thief in the following lines from “God Forgives”: “Kids, custody of the state from foster homes to juvies, then prison; a revolving door of hell.” The thief and the street youth are reevaluated from Thief ’s interpretation of the life of Saint Desmus. Their lives are given new meaning and new hope. As Saint Desmus was redeemed on the cross, so their lives can be redeemed even as they continue to carry their crosses. Thief Sicario’s work exemplifies the spirituality of many Chican@/Mexican@ street youth expressed in hip-hop. His second solo compact disc, Honor among Thieves (2010), opens with a quote from the Bible: “He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life. He who opens his lips too wide brings on his own destruction” (Proverbs 13:3). Another voice “testifies” with “Amen.” The epistemology of the Chican@ lumpenproletariat that is so central to Chicano hip-hop has as one of its central virtues resistance to governmental authority.9 Speaking to authorities is a crime worthy of severe punishment. In hip-hop parlance this is called “snitchin’.” Sicario’s selective use of the Bible is, of course, common throughout Christendom. Each Christian sect interprets the Bible for its own purposes. Different interpretations and emphases on certain passages reflect the unique experiences of specific groups of people. For slavers and patriarchal societies, passages that see obedience and adherence to hierarchy as virtues reflect God’s “true” word. Enslaved Africans in the Americas used stories of liberation, such as that of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt toward the Promised Land, as inspiration for the basis of their spirituality and the development of the Black Church. Currently, the “fundamentalist” Christian Right uses the mistranslations and misinterpretations of ancient Jewish culture in passages found in the Book of Leviticus to condemn homosexuality and argue against civil rights for gays and lesbians. While some members of the ChHHN uniquely translate Catholicism and the Bible to fit their spiritual needs in the postindustrial barrio, others deeply criticize what they see as a colonizing religion.10 The most articulate of these critiques come from indigenous/Mexica emcees, who I examine in the “Sonido Indígena” chapter. Suffice it to say here that many draw links between the racial subordination of Mexican and indigenous peoples by Europeans and European Catholicism. In “Missmewithat,” from Thief Sicario’s second compact disc, Brown Caesar raps his critique of Catholicism: The world is like a game but it’s like missing the ref. No one is callin’ foul on this system that casts a dark shadow on our lands. Pilgrim, missmewithat

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So, missmewithat hypocrisy you call religion with your conquests, your missions and your inquisitions. Smallpox for the masses. What kind of history is that?

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So, missmewithat.

The version on Brown Caesar’s The Gangster and the B-boy: Mixtape, volume 2, ends with a recording of Sick Jacken of the Psycho Realm explaining that “as natives, it’s not like we don’t believe in god / . . . / but we believe religion is a form of control of the people.” Brown Caesar and other Chican@ emcees know a history of religion in which religious fundamentalists and zealots worked in tandem with military violence to subdue native populations in the Americas and elsewhere. Brown Caesar, by saying “missmewithat” or “miss me with that,” is rejecting histories of religion and conquest that do not challenge the roles that European religions played in colonialism. He says, in essence, that he doesn’t want to hear any more about these religions as benevolent forces in the lives of colonized people. By asking, “What kind of history is that?,” he wants the European churches to account for their actions toward native peoples. His question challenges the morality of these churches, and suggests that they should be ashamed and feel vergüenza (shame)—an important value in Mexican culture. At the same time, the emcees explain that they have spirituality or a belief system regarding God or gods, but that organized European religions have had detrimental effects on them. Through declaring their right to a spiritual belief system outside of the organized European churches, they work to decolonize themselves. Their belief systems have been liberated from colonial institutions and have allowed them to explore new spiritual beliefs, often denigrated by ruling elites. The spirituality of Chicano emcees is complex and polycultural. “One” is a notion found in reggae culture. Bob Marley’s “One Love” inspired many to see the sacred in relational terms. Marley’s spirituality is open and accepting. He strives for peaceful human interaction, though he does not shy away from protecting himself and others from evil forces, including the state, police, military, capitalists, and racism.11 While Marley’s Rastafarianism recognizes Jah (God) in monotheistic terms, it also sees the spirit or life force as emanating through all humans. This notion is similar to spiritual concepts such as the Bantu ubuntu (you are my other me) and Mayan in lak ech (you are my other me). Bob Marley wrote in “One Love”: “Sayin’ One Love, One Heart / Let’s get together and feel all right. / I’m pleading to mankind. / (One Love) Oh Lord / (One Heart) / Give thanks and praise to the Lord and I will feel all right. / Let’s get together and feel all right.” The ethic of ubuntu is profound in the Rastafarian culture as they use the term “I and I” which would be loosely translated as “we.” They are saying that one’s self includes others and Jah. It

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suggests that “we” is an extension of “I.” One’s identity is at one and the same time communal, spiritual, and personal. Krazy Race ties himself to Rastafarianism and Rastafarian concepts on his compact disc The Movement: Strength in Numbers (2006). “Day of the Dead” uses reggae-inspired music to examine the Mexican holiday Día de los Muertos. For Krazy Race this holiday is a reconnection with his ancient Mexican past. It is a renewal of his indigenous Mexicanness. It is important that he does this using African diasporic music, especially that of the spirituality-laden reggae. In this remarkable song, Krazy Race, along with reggae artists Quinto Sol, examines present-day Mexican indigenism through the celebration of Día de los Muertos. The production of the song includes a heavy reggae beat played by a bass and piano, a hip-hop boom-bap bass drum and repetitive high-hat sound. Additionally, towards the end of the song, Amerindian flutes remind us of the ancient roots of the important Mexican ritual. This song is a dedication and remembrance of ancestors and the connection between present-day Chican@s/Mexican@s and their indigenous past. This ritual is important because, as Krazy Race raps, “we can never move forward until we remember the past.” Through Día de los Muertos rituals of communion and communication, they remember a time “a thousand years back [when] our ancestors celebrated / not Roman Catholicized, colonialized, manipulated.” The ritual allows them to imagine an idealized society in which indigenous cultural traditions were practiced by selfdetermining, autonomous brown people instead of “the government nonsense” that continues colonial practices. Similarly, Jehuniko’s song “Gracias al Creador,” featuring Ras Huba and Aruna, from his Cold in the Hot Sun (2010) compact disc, relies on both Amerindian and African-diasporic ideas on spirituality. His song utilizes a reggae beat and reggae vocals by Ras Huba, who sings the chorus: Todos los días le doy gracias a dios.

[Everyday I give thanks to god.

Por mis ancestros, gracias a ellos.

For my ancestors, I thank them.

Diligente adelante voy.

Diligently, forward I go.

Todos los días doy gracias a dios.

Everyday I give thanks to god.

Hoy amenezco, camino y crezco.

Today I awake, walk, and grow.]

The song, which opens with an invocation to Haile Selassie I and Jah, is an homage to Jehuniko’s ancestors (“pagando respeto a los veteranos, las madres y los maestros”) and a call to fight against the destruction of the Earth. As in Krazy Race’s song, reggae music places Jehuniko’s spirituality within an African-diasporic context as well as that of Amerindian belief systems. Throughout the song, time is kept by an electric piano/synthesizer that insistently plays a chord figure in a reggae beat.

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Jehuniko gives thanks to the Creator for all the good that life brings. He also fights and works for a better life for himself, his family, and those who have been denied a good life. For example, he raps: Empiezo mi día como mi papá

[I begin each day like my dad

Listo para trabajar para recibir

Ready to work to receive

Los bendiciones del día Nuevo

The blessings of a new day . . .

Todos merecemos lo mejor

We all deserve the best

Que esta vida tiene que ofrecer

that this life can offer

Porque trabajamos para el Creador.

Because we work for the Creator.]

Like many Chican@ emcees, but unlike most of what you hear on corporate radio, his version of a good life includes a connection to his spirituality, nature, and his family. While corporate rap music pushes a version of the good life that focuses primarily on the acquisition of things, including money, cars, liquor, other drugs, and women, Jehuniko and others rely on a definition of life based on love, kindness, and a land-based spirituality. On “Gracias al Creador” he expresses this in the following lines:

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Estoy vivo con puro amor en mi Corazón . . .

[I’m alive with pure love in my heart.

Pachamama guerillero. Por mi hija

Earth warrior. For my daughter

Yo trabajo . . .

I work.

No me gusta mi trabajo

I don’t like my job.

Mi jefe es un payaso

My boss is a clown

Pero cuando salgo mi jale

but when I leave my gig

Me voy directamente a la familia

I go directly to my family

Para nadar en los rayos del sol

to swim in the sun’s rays

Puro amor de mi familia.

Pure love of my family.]

Linking his spirituality with indigenous people, Jehuniko refers to himself as a Pachamama guerrillero. Indigenous peoples of the Andes refer to Mother Earth as Pachamama. In the past couple of decades, indigenous peoples in this region have organized to defend the natural resources and the environments in which they live. Under the threat of extractive industries such as mining and timbering, these indigenous peoples have invoked their traditional ontologies and cosmologies to educate and inspire themselves in the struggle against global capitalism. Jehuniko aligns himself with this indigenous worldview. He is a warrior for Mother Earth as well as his family, which provides the sustenance for him to overcome the alienating world of wage labor.

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Jehuniko’s Amerindian African spirituality is woven seamlessly with his politics as he critiques capitalism, ecological destruction, and colonialism. He raps: El olor de pan dulce en el aire

[The smell of pastries in the air

Como los espíritus que bailan

like the spirits that dance

Arriba de Babylonia

atop Babylon,

Tierra de mi gente.

The land of my people.]

Babylon is a concept that Rastafarians borrowed from the Bible to describe the pernicious European capitalism that enslaved African peoples and brought them to the Americas. Reggae artists often use Babylon when referring to the United States, Europe, and colonial powers. Bob Marley’s famous “Chant Down Babylon” is the classic statement on Babylon. He believes that power (Babylon) is out to destroy humanity, and that with the power of music we can combat it—we can “chant down Babylon.” Similarly, Jehuniko’s “work,” his music and art, is used to fight for Mother Earth and his people. Many like Jehuniko, Krazy Race, and the Mexica/indigenous emcees discussed in the chapter “Sonido Indígena” combine political and cultural resistance with an Earth-based spirituality. As indigenous people, colonized by European capitalists, who have seen their homes and their land destroyed by rapacious capitalist profitmaking, they are anticapitalists who challenge the new world capitalist order. However, questions remain concerning whether Chicano hip-hop can be a cultural wing of a mass social movement, or whether Chicano emcees can be revolutionary theorists and propagandists without a well-developed vision for an alternative society, and without sustained interaction with political movements.

Barrio Politics: Soldiers against the New World Order

The figure of the “soldier” or “soulja” is ubiquitous in hip-hop. Members of the HHN fashion their identities, in part, through militaristic images and language. They “drop bombs,” “pull gats,” and dress in camouflage clothing. Their music is shot through with gunshots and other sounds of violence and war. Images such as tanks (see Master P’s body of work) are common in hip-hop iconography. The resistant, the warrior, the Bad Nigga, the pinto, the gangbanger, and the social bandit coalesce into the hip-hop street soldier. A large number of Chicano/Mexicano emcees and groups fashion themselves as soldiers or soldados. I focus here on the political outlook that accompanies the Chicano hip-hop soldier. As already examined, Chican@/Mexican@ identity is resistant to power,

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especially governmental authority and economic elites. While they are not always anticapitalist, they are almost always anticapitalists. That is, while they don’t always identify capitalism as the problem, they do see rich white men as oppressors. Many Chicanos have historically seen the police and criminal justice system as the most immediate source of government authority and oppression. Their barrioization and criminalization by colonizing forces in the West established an antagonistic relationship between the police and people of Mexican descent. This perspective has been well examined in Chicano studies.12 A new outlook has emerged during the postindustrial period. Chicano emcees have theorized the new world order run “by a handful of greedy corporations who no one elected” (Arunhati Roy, quoted in F.I.L.T.H.E.E. Immigrants’ 2004 song “They”) and shadowy extragovernmental entities, including the World Bank/IMF and secret societies like the Illuminati. Whether or not there is a secret society running the world, Chicano/Mexicano emcees recognize, like many scholars, that power is being consolidated in fewer and fewer hands, resulting in the immiseration of more and more people. One need only look at the increasing wealth gap between the most wealthy 1 percent of the world and the poorest 80 percent of the population to see evidence of this phenomenon. Chicano hip-hop headz are mistrustful of elites, including important political figures. In the Thief Sicario, Krazy Race, Brown Casesar, and Cazm One song “Missmewithat” (Thief Sicario 2010) the emcees alert us to this perspective, shouting, “Put my faith in Obama? / Man, miss me with that.” They do not believe that the government in the form of President Obama will be helpful to them. “Miss me with that” is saying that you shouldn’t even discuss the issue since he disagrees so strongly with that particular point of view. In essence, they say, “I would never have faith in President Obama so don’t even talk with me about it.” They see our system of government as being biased toward the wealthy, with little reason to believe in the myth of democracy presented to us in our civics textbooks. President Bush was a frequent target of Chicano emcees who believed him to be an authoritarian, racist puppet of the imperial capitalist class, and a warmonger. In “Fact or Fiction” (2004) Krazy Race observes: “Mr. President, come to realize / you want complete power of everything under the sky.” Later in the song he wonders, like many of us in the United States, “Fact Mr. President, over 50,000 votes not evident. / Wonder where they went.” In “Illuminati” (2004) he strongly asserts his anti-Bush, antiwar politics, saying, “In the Illuminati, drop Bush not bombs is the slogan of my party.” Reflecting the belief that our society is becoming more and more repressive, he tells the listener to “ask your Congressman about the Patriot Act / where your civil rights disappear like that.” In addition to their focused and well-researched anticapitalist, anti-globalization critique, Chicano emcees include race as a significant factor in their analysis of U.S. and global politics.

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Brown/Raza

Chican@ emcees tend to see race in fairly conventional ways. Their analyses see people of Mexican descent as a race distinct from whites and blacks. They understand racial distinctions in terms of biology. Thus, they are brown people, mestizos, or indios. They have inherited the racial classification system that developed in the Americas beginning with the Spanish invasion, and continued through the establishment of the United States and its two-hundred-year history. The Spaniards had a very complex racial structure and culture that tried to strictly divide the various races and racial mixtures in the Spanish colonies in the Americas. The Anglo classification system developed from the experience of enslaving Africans and the U.S. westward expansion during the nineteenth century. These classifications stem from the early hierarchical system developed during European imperial expansion from the fifteenth through the nineteenth centuries. Whites or Caucasoids were superior as evidenced by their larger craniums and cultural and technological development. “Darker races” like the Negroids and Mongoloids had less highly developed civilizations. This “finding” by European “scientists” and “social scientists” justified the invasions and colonization in the name of bringing civilization, democracy, and Christ to the American and African masses. Chican@/Mexican@ emcees, for the most part, reject the notion of the “darker races” being inferior, but accept the racial classification system, its logic, and its language. They simply turn the tables. In their envisioning of a more acceptable world, they would be the ones to inflict racial violence, colonialism, and genocide. They would become the racially superior with unsurpassed civilizations and religions. The European, Caucasian, or gringo is less intelligent, less creative, and less moral. They accept the logic of cultural nationalism, including its racial-pride and racialsuperiority rhetoric. The term raza illustrates how Chican@s and Mexican@s, especially emcees, view race, and the priority they place on people of their race. Raza (race) is an in-group term for people of Mexican descent. The first Chicano rap hit, “La Raza” (1990) by Kid Frost, was a Chican@ pride song that explained to outsiders that “this is not for you anyway. This is for la raza.” Chicano emcees use the term raza frequently, mirroring its use in Chican@/Mexican@ communities. Many Chicano/Mexicano emcees’ understanding of raza and mestizaje begins with the notion that we are primarily a Native American people. We are indigenous to these lands. Their politics often extend from this notion and see people of Mexican descent as people who are rightful inheritors of the lands of the Americas and their

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resources. As native people they believe that the opposing racial group, Anglos or gringos, has stolen their land and owes them. This theft of land by foreigners is at the crux of racial conflict for Chican@/Mexican@ emcees.

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Multifunctional Marijuana

Marijuana is celebrated by many in the HHN. Chican@s/Mexican@s, like other users of marijuana, have theorized its effects on mind, body, soul, and community. Virtually all Chicano/Mexicano emcees rap about marijuana. Most have entire songs dedicated to its use. Important examples include Krazy Race’s “Hydrophonic Dreams” (2004), Sicko Soldado’s “Good Smoke,” featuring Mostro (2008), and Kemo’s “Please Dr. Green” (2010). Later, I take up the examination of marijuana use, especially as it relates to a masculine sense of daring. However, it is important to note a few things here concerning the way marijuana is conceptualized in the ChHHN. Hierba or yesca has multiple functions: spiritual, economic, environmental, fun/leisure, sexual, and political. An important aspect of having “smoke-out sessions” (Mostro in “Good Smoke”) is the communal nature of it. Whenever you find Chican@/Mexican@ emcees engaged in smoking marijuana, it involves a group of friends enjoying each other’s company and reinforcing their community. While they are having a smoke-out session or powwow, as some call it, only good feelings and good vibes are exchanged. Violence and gangbanging, which inform most of the public’s understanding of drugs, is nowhere to be found in raps/ poems about marijuana. Kemo’s latest work includes the song “Please Doctor Green,” which discusses another important aspect of marijuana use in working-class Mexican American barrios. Many use it to relieve stress and calm the mind, and as a coping mechanism for the workaday problems of the working class. Paying bills; providing clothing, food, and shelter for one’s family; and enjoying life is difficult for the working classes, who are at the mercy of the job market and corporate power. Kemo pleads with his doctor to give him something he “can smoke on.” He raps in the chorus: “Please Doctor Green. / Please give me something I can smoke on. / I been stressing for like so long. / Give me something to get high. / Get me high.” Throughout the song he explains to his doctor why he wants to be prescribed medicinal marijuana to help him with the mental and psychological stressors of life. In rhyming couplets over a mellow rhythm track and sweet, high-pitched, synthesizer-driven melody, Kemo examines the stressors of life for working-class people. Here is verse one:

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I’m short of money and I done most I can do. The bills are piling and the mortgage note is due. The bill collectors ring my phone but I’m not there. I hear it ringin’ but I act like I don’t care. My kids are hungry and they outgrowing they shoes. The roof is leakin’ and my ranfla’s ripped in two. There ain’t no jobs out there to help me make it through.

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Filthy rich politicians lie to me and you.

He begins the second verse discussing how alcohol has a number of undesirable side effects not possessed by marijuana. For this reason he needs a new medicine, marijuana. Kemo wants a medicine that will be good for stress and have him wake up feeling good. He inquires: “So, what can help when I toss and turn / in the middle of the night about my tax return / and wake up feeling just good as new? / Just a little for the stress to help me get through.” In “Please Doctor Green,” Kemo provides an analysis of working-class social problems. Working-class people get paid wages that make it difficult to make ends meet. They are “short of money.” Like all of us in the United States, Kemo needs to pay for utilities, necessary items for living, special items, food, transportation, and housing. All of these bills are piling up. They cause worry and concern for the future of his family. Kemo’s wages cause his kids to be hungry and have clothes that don’t fit. Both his house and his car (ranfla) are in disrepair. The economy controlled by “filthy rich politicians” does not help, as the unemployment rate for inner-city men of color is perpetually high. The rap/poems of Chican@/Mexican@ emcees help us see how the crack economy often associated with barrio life and hip-hop, and the marijuana economy are separate in many ways. The rise in gang violence resulted from the 1980s deindustrialized economy that gave rise to the crack-cocaine economy. Since gang membership could become lucrative through organized drug selling, it became more dangerous. Rival gangs now had millions of dollars at stake as well as neighborhood territory (M. Davis 1992; Hayden 2003). This is not the economy or culture of marijuana. Marijuana serves a number of functions for Chican@/Mexican@ emcees. Violence is generally not one of them.

Chingones and Mamones: Words on Gender

The term chingón has a long history in Chican@/Mexican@ speech.13 The chingón is the dominant one. Literally, he is the fucker and not the fucked. The chingón,

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especially the mero chingón, is powerful. He is not the powerless chingada, the raped one. The chingón is a masculine icon. He is the prototypical man of Mexican descent. If you are a man of Mexican descent, then you want to be a chingón. This is the ideal that many grow up learning. A predominant identity of Chicano/Mexicano emcees is the hypermasculine, macho chingón who is physically and sexually powerful and heterosexual. One linguistic feature of ChHHN and street language (caló) that helps establish the chingón is the opposite of the macho, the leva/chavala/mamón. A leva is weak, or as Thief says in “La Prueba” (2010), “a coward’s a leva.” The chavala serves as the opposite of the chingón because the chavala is not brave. Thief describes the chavala in this way: “If a vato’s [guy] shook [shook up or afraid] that means he’s a chavala.” The weak and fearful man has been a favorite foil of the macho Chicano emcee since Kid Frost recorded “La Raza” in 1990. Frost taunts someone whom he sees as inferior by rapping sarcastically that “you’re so cool / Imma call you a culo [asshole or weak male],” and “you’re a peewee, a leva / can’t get none eva.” Here Frost deftly uses two languages, caló (“leva”) and Ebonics (pronunciation of “ever” as “eva”), to create this rhyming insult and establish his lyrical prowess and chingón nature. The leva or chavala is key since Chicano/Mexicano emcees’ notions of gender reflect that of the dominant U.S. society. Dichotomous thinking results in the creation of oppositional binaries. Categories such as black or white, male or female, and gay or straight are understood to be not only different but opposed to one another. Chicano/Mexicano emcees live in a Manichean world of gender in which either you are chingón or mamón. Women have separate roles. Since they are weaker under this dichotomous thinking, they are la chingada. They are not chingonas. To be chingón is the privilege of the heterosexual Mexican male macho. All of Chicano/Mexicano rap regards gender in these terms. They represent themselves as soldiers, thugs, gangstas, gun carriers, warriors, and other threatening characters. It is important to note that while Chicano/Mexicano emcees are always macho and ready to use violence, their violence often differs from that of self-destructive fratricidal violence. Sometimes it is resistant, even revolutionary. The leva or chavala is feminized, demasculinized. He is seen as a she (note the feminine “a” ending of each word). He is the sexual male Other. In the emcees’ world, the ideal man is heterosexual. To be “hard” refers to possessing physical and emotional strength and heteronormative masculine sexuality. To be a Mexican man, then, is to be a very particular being. Many are left out of this picture. This prompts Richard T. Rodriguez (2009) to ask who is the “us” in the cultural nationalist imaginary in (Kid) Frost’s lyrics, and does it include queers? The hypermasculine Chicano/Mexicano and his role in the family is a significant factor in male identity in the new millennium. Thus, the new millennial mestizaje, while being much more

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cognizant of the polycultural nature of Mexicans/Chican@s, retains its masculine privilege, narrowly defines manhood, and rejects the sexual and sexualized Others: women and gays and lesbians. Mexican national identity as expressed by some in Chicano/Mexicano hip-hop foregrounds chingón masculinity, family, blood, and nationalism. The gang member is the prototypical chingón.14 He defies authority and boasts that he is in control. He is independent, autonomous, and free. His lack of concern for the law reinforces his claim to independence. Moreover, the gang member makes money selling drugs and engaging in other illegal activity. The gang member is unafraid, knowledgeable about, and willing to use guns. Many rappers discuss guns in great detail, including the different types of weapons and their various uses. The gang member presents himself as a threat to others and to society in general. Gang-member characters in rap poems use threats about shooting and physically assaulting people. They dominate others and cannot be defeated. The gang member’s expression of violent hypermasculinity reveals the pathology of such understandings of masculinity and the place of these machos in the global economic system. The only means to power (the key trait of hegemonic hypermasculinity) for these men is physical violence. In general, Chicano/Mexicano emcees hold dichotomous notions of gender that do not vary from U.S. heteronormative patriarchal ideology concerning gender roles and gender socialization. However, they are not always violent and domineering. Artists like Kemo, Krazy Race, and El Vuh resist the most misogynist aspects of both the dominant and hip-hop cultures. In rare cases, Chicano emcees even reveal weakness, insecurity, and fear—emotional states that are mostly denied by machos in the HHN.

End Word

Chican@/Mexican@ Hip Hop Nation Language (ChHHNL) reflects how, according to James Baldwin (qtd. in Perry and Delpit 1998), “people evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate.” ChHHNL illustrates Chican@/Mexican@ agency in the postindustrial United States, where people of Mexican descent and their lifeways are under attack. These emcees have developed a language that allows a critique of our society from their experience as colonial subjects—the subaltern speaking. Their language presents the self-representation and self-definition of a segment of the twenty-first-century Chican@/Mexican@ working class. They actively and symbolically oppose how they have been represented in U.S. history and jurisprudence. Their self-definition offers opportunities to understand the identities

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of people of Mexican descent in the United States today. At the same time, a careful reading of ChHHN self-representation is sensitive to the manner in which they affirm and justify the negative stereotypes held throughout the dominant culture. Since “minority” languages such as Chicano English, caló, and Ebonics have been maligned and used as evidence of speakers’ inferiority, most of us have very little reference to understand what these young men and women are saying. Instead, we often dismiss these speakers as lower-class, criminal, ignorant, unintelligent, and dangerous. For this reason, the examination of Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop lyrics and ChHHNL in these pages is important for translation purposes, as well as to validate the resistant culture of the colonized and decolonizing Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop headz. In order to understand who they are, we must understand what they are saying. Moreover, this understanding must originate not in the colonial, bourgeois worldview, but in that of Mexican@s/Chican@s themselves.

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PA RT 2

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Identities Old and New

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CHA PTER 3

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Sonido Indígena: Mexica Hip-Hop and Masculine Identity

Many Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop musicians identify racially and ethnically as indigenous and/or Mexica.1 Their music reflects the spiritual and political identity first broadly developed in the mid-1960s by militant Chican@ youth, particularly influenced by Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzalez’s poem “Yo Soy Joaquin.” These artists update and add to Chican@ indigenism from their position in the postindustrial inner city, where hip-hop culture has had a profound impact on their worldview and consciousness. In true hip-hop style, and with Chican@ revolutionary rhetoric, many artists define themselves in opposition to the white, colonialist power structure while claiming an indigenous heritage linked closely to positive and superior nature-society relations2 and Mesoamerican cosmology. Los Nativos exemplify the neo-indigenous subject position within Chican@/Mexican@ rap. Their lyrics and music articulate the ways in which they understand themselves vis-à-vis U.S. society and Mesoamerican tradition. For many, they represent a hopeful anticolonialist cultural politics. However, their aesthetics and politics are indebted to a heteronormative, patriarchal, male-centered lineage in Chican@/Mexican@ culture. These men of Mexican descent critique white colonialism and domination but retain their male privilege. n

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Their cultural politics is limited in its approach to gender and its claims to the land. Women are subordinated and gays and lesbians rendered invisible in this patriarchal tradition with ties to an aggressive colonialism. Los Nativos’ and other Mexicas’ attachment to the imperial, colonial Aztec/Mexica belies their claims to an anticolonial politics. Neo-indigenist privileging of a patriarchal civilization over the numerous cultures and nations in the pre-Columbian Americas that were matrilineal and matriarchal means that men dominate the social, political, and economic structures of an envisioned neo-Mexica indigenism. Nevertheless, Los Nativos’ aesthetics and rhetorics of brown male resistance to oppression are enticing. Their music appeals to the heterosexual Chicano/Mexicano male self. Their music, especially their beats, resonates with the experiences of b-boys (breakdancers) who dance for its inherent freedom and rebelliousness. The creative, powerful brown man portrayed in Chicano/Mexicano hip-hop and throughout Chicano/Mexicano male musical culture resists the stereotypes of people of Mexican descent seen in the corporate entertainment and news media.3 Instead of being at the bottom, people of Mexican descent are on top in hip-hop and rap music. It is a music that speaks back to power. It has the potential to help “decolonize the mind,” as Kenyan writer Ngugi Wa Thiong’o might describe it. Yet, its unapologetic aggressive maleness and heteronormative orientation limit its ability to speak to a decolonial project that breaks down all forms of oppression. This lack of self-reflexivity allows them and their audience to dismiss their male privilege and assumptions about male and female gender roles.4 As engaged fans and critics, we must be aware of the contradictions found in Mexica/indigenous hip-hop. To answer the questions about the neo-indigenous identity in the hip-hop of Chican@ and Mexican@ youth, we first develop a framework for understanding the rhetoric of neo-indigenist emcees (hip-hop vocalists) using a neocolonial analysis that sees identity-making practices of colonized people as mythmaking in the service of liberation. Neo-indigenist hip-hop adopts and adapts aspects of indigenous life, and myths about indigenous life, in their attempts to develop a resistant indigenous identity. This new generation of Chican@ radicals borrows the ideas and iconography of the Chicano Movement. Today, neo-indigenous thought and identity are influenced by “anahuacentrism” exemplified by the Mexica Movement. The neoindigenist identity-making of Los Nativos results in a new “Mexica consciousness.” Its dimensions are examined in the final half of the chapter.

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Freedom Dreams and Liberation Mythologies

Myths are sacred statements about our world and our place in it. Each society and/ or culture develops myths that tell us who they are. The myths of colonial powers include their superiority and the inferiority of the colonized. The works of Fanon, Césaire, Memmi, and others established this point and its importance during the decolonial upheavals of the 1950s and 1960s. Robin D. G. Kelley (2002, 180), using their insights, explains that “colonial domination required a whole way of thinking, a discourse in which everything that was advanced, good, and civilized was defined and measured in European terms.” Anticolonial and decolonial intellectuals argue for reversing this mythology or way of thinking. The expressive culture of oppressed people throughout the world does just that. The Mexica hip-hop artist should be counted among them. Mexica/indigenous Xican@s5 should be seen as part of the “actively diasporan faction” that seeks to remake the world according to how they believe their Aztec and other indigenous ancestors lived. However, instead of imitating a mythological Aztec or capitalist European culture, the political project of Mexica artists is to rethink how we live. They want to use their “memories” of their ancestors to liberate themselves from colonialism and racism. Rivera’s (2009) explanation regarding bomba and palo music of the Afro-Caribbean is useful for thinking about this process among Mexica emcees: “The purpose of these liberation mythologies is to dig deep into the (often repressed) histories of African descendants in the Americas in order to confront the present injustices that African descendants face and to craft dreams of freedom for the future.” The Aztec warrior and Aztec culture in Chicano hip-hop fill the same roles as the Haitian and maroonage in Caribbean music. They provide a cultural foundation and set of liberation mythologies that allow one to dream of and work toward a better life for the diasporan Latin@. Such mythology is important to movements for social justice since “fantasy remains our most pre-emptive critical faculty, for it alone tells us what can be” (Kelley 2002, 164). The stories told and identities expressed by Mexica/indigenous emcees are not simply appropriations of an essentialized mythological past. They, like the black radical intellectuals discussed by Kelley (2002, 15), “dreamed the ancient world as a place of freedom, a picture to imagine what we desired and what was possible.” They are “modern ancients” who develop their own lens to interpret the past and imagine a much more democratic and egalitarian future. Organically developed expressive culture such as hip-hop is crucial to combating colonial and capitalist ideology that turns colonial subjects into commodities or mere things that can be manipulated for the benefit of the ruling classes. Césaire (2001, 6) writes that relations

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between colonizer and colonized turn “the indigenous man into an instrument of production.” He explains that colonialism is “thingification.” The colonial system requires an ideology of racial hierarchy so as to naturalize and normalize white colonial domination. Through schools, media, religion, and other such institutions, this ideology predominates among colonizer, settler, and colonized alike. Césaire, among many other anticolonial writers, argues for seeing the ancestral cultures and societies of the colonized as anticapitalist, communal, egalitarian, and democratic. Importantly, Césaire includes the Aztecs as one of these democratic, egalitarian societies. Césaire is intentionally being polemical and essentialist as a strategy to defend the colonized. He wants us to reject seeing the colonized through the lens of the colonizer and instead develop an ideological defense of them. His critique and new way of seeing parallels that of the freedom dreams of musicians and artists; they often draw from an idealized understanding of precolonial times to develop a decolonial or anticolonial countermemory from which to struggle for a better life. Below is an attempt to understand what this better life looks like from a Mexica/ indigenous hip-hop perspective. But first, we have to place Mexica/indigenous hip-hop in the context of the Chicano Movement and its neo-indigenism expressed through radical Chicano politics/poetics.

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Indigenous Identity and Radical Chicano Politics/Poetics

From the beginning of the radical working-class nationalist movement known as the Chicano Movement, an indigenous identity was central to Chican@ political and cultural analysis, political activity, and artistic/literary expression. Many politically active Chican@s understood themselves to be indigenous people. Many adopted indigenous names, learned Aztec dances, and wrote poetry and other literature that utilized pre-Columbian, Mesoamerican aesthetic forms and themes. Aztec dance troupes and schools can be found in most major cities of the West and Southwest. Theater groups, including El Teatro Campesino, made their indigenous roots explicit in their work (Broyles-Gonzalez 1994). Poets and other writers consistently referred to their indigenous ancestry (Castillo 1994). The idea that people of Mexican descent are an indigenous people was a fundamental understanding of Chican@ studies and Chican@ political activism. The first independent Chicano publishing house was Quinto Sol Publications. Its name derived from the Mayan calendar. The central journal of the discipline is Aztlán—an unambiguous reference to Chican@ Mexica indigeneity. Political treatises by movement activists proclaim a desire to return to their indigenous cultural roots. The Chican@ student movement group MEChA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano

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de Aztlán) derives its name from the concept of Aztlán, which locates Chican@/ Mexican@ origins in today’s U.S. Southwest. One of their founding documents, El Plan Espiritual de Aztlán (The Spiritual Plan of Aztlán), sets forth a nationalist agenda for people of Mexican descent in the United States. The Plan reads in part: We, the Chicano inhabitants and civilizers of the northern land of Aztlán from whence came our forefathers, reclaiming the land of their birth and consecrating the determination of our people of the sun . . . Aztlán belongs to those who plant the seeds, water the fields, and gather the crops and not to the foreign Europeans. We do not recognize

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capricious frontiers on the bronze continent.

The beliefs presented in this brief passage allowed Chican@s to develop an analysis of contemporary conditions in the United States as one of internal colonialism6 in which the original homeland of the Aztec/Mexica is today’s U.S. Southwest, or what they call “Aztlán.” The U.S. Southwest, where most Mexican Americans or Chican@s lived in the 1960s, was occupied land. The authors of El Plan and its young adherents believed that they, as the descendants of the Mexica, were native to Aztlán. They should be considered indigenous people. They developed a new ethnic identity as “Chicano,” emphasizing their indigenous roots.7 The reference to “forefathers” reclaiming land suggests their male-centered belief that men are the agents of history and rightful owners of the land. Similarly, Chicano Manifesto (1971) by Armando Rendón uses Aztec concepts such as Aztlán and the Fifth Sun to establish Chicano indigeneity. Contreras (2008) shows how Rendón reinterprets these ideas to create a Chicano identity in which Chican@s are agents of historical change endowed with special spiritual connections. Connections to an indigenous spiritual past have been used to critique imperialism. In Alurista’s Nationchild Plumaroja, “he tailored ‘recovered’ knowledge into a vehicle for anti-imperialist critique” (Contreras 2008, 95). Using Aztec religious ideas, he created a perspective that saw imperialists such as the United States as evil like the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca. According to this perspective, Chicanos and other anti-imperialists should resist war and racism because they are the forces of good like Quetzalcoatl. In additional works, Alurista uses Aztec gods and spiritual practices as metaphor for capitalism, imperialism, and militarism. The ideas of Chicano indigeneity and Aztlán have been discussed throughout Chicano musical cultures of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. In the early 1970s, groups like Conjunto Aztlán and La Rondalla Amerindia de Aztlán paid respect to their indigenous ancestors in their names and many of the lyrics to their songs (Azcona 2005). In recent years, musicians as distinct as blues/ rock/regional-Mexican superstars Los Lobos, rappers Aztlán Nation, and DJs

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like Payback Garcia have recorded songs that discuss Aztlán (McFarland 2006c). Chicano rappers are the latest to use Chican@ Movement and academic ideas in their music and as the basis of their identities. Indigenous-identified Chicano rappers and activists adopt a militant stance toward European occupation of their lands. They are indigenist because they “take the rights of indigenous people as the highest priority of [their] political li[ves]” (Churchill 1996). They act on behalf of indigenous people and work for self-determination and empowerment of native people everywhere. They celebrate historical acts of resistance, promote current struggles of native people, especially the EZLN/Zapatistas of Mexico, and actively work to develop their communities. However, even though Chican@ indigeneity presents a critique of racist colonialism in the Americas, it leaves out a number of important elements relative to power, gender, race, and territoriality. The Chican@-indigenist perspective brings up a number of questions. What are Chican@s’ relationships to tribal issues in the United States? Why the focus on the Aztec (Mexica) instead of the dozens of other Mesoamerican peoples throughout Mexico, Central America, and the United States? How do Mexica/indigenist Chicano men understand their relationship to women? What role do women play in the Mexica social order? Additionally, what roles do notions of biological race and mestizaje play in the identities of Mexica indigenists? Examining Chican@ literary production since the 1960s, Contreras (2008) shows how much of Chican@ neo-indigenism has developed from a primitivist rhetoric first posed by white anthropologists and archaeologists. According to Contreras, Chican@ indigeneity results not from a direct indigenous experience in North America (what they call “Anahuac”), but through the recovered and academic interpretations of Mesoamerican documents. Both Contreras’s caution and Kelley’s and Rivera’s hope should be considered in understanding and evaluating Mexica hip-hop as a tool of revolutionary change.

Anahuac-centrism and the Mexica Movement

A leading voice of the contemporary Mexica indigenist perspective, the Mexica Movement, provides us with a detailed history, pedagogy, spiritual perspective, and political ideology of contemporary Mexica indigenists. The Mexica Movement explains what they call Anahuac-centered thought. They say that they are “Anahuac-centric descendants of the Anahuac people.” While they claim no formal affiliation with the Mexica Movement, Los Nativos’ worldview, critique of society, and indigenous identity share characteristics with those expressed by the Mexica Movement. A brief overview of Mexica Movement thought provides a framework for

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understanding Los Nativos’ work. On their website, the Mexica Movement explains that they are not European, Hispanic, or Latino. Instead they say: We are Nican Tlaca. The Indigenous People of Canada, the U.S., Mexico and “Central America.” We reject all European divisions of our continent. We reject the artificial border divisions of our people. We reject the White Supremacist ideology that claims Europeans are permanently endowed with the right to define who we are as a people. We include “First Nation” and “Native American” and “South American” all as one Nican Tlaca (Indigenous People). We say, “No to occupation!” We say, “This is still our continent!”

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We say, “Europeans are the illegals—since 1492.” (Mexica Movement 2009a).

They argue that they are part of the original inhabitants of North America, Anahuac. They trace their lineage to the “Olmec mother-father civilization” that is five thousand years old. Thus, they claim to be the proper owners and caretakers of the land. They identify with other tribes and nations of indigenous people. They believe that their land has been occupied by European colonialists since 1492. Additionally, the Mexica Movement argues for the development of indigenous understanding through Mexica education projects. They advocate and act on behalf of indigenous people through boycotts, education, and publishing materials from the Mexica perspective. An important aspect of the Mexica/Nican Tlaca/indigenous perspective is reclaiming their spiritual understanding. They discuss the different manifestations of the Creator (Ometeotl). The Mexica Movement (2009b) explains in “Understanding Anahuac Spirituality” that what are commonly known as important gods are ways to understanding the Creator. Names like Tonantzin, Coatlicue, Ehecuatl, and Quetzalcoatl refer to the many powers that create, maintain, and sustain the universe. Their Anahuac spirituality includes understanding many other beings and forces to have important roles in the universe. They feel close to and a part of nature. They describe how Mexica ancestors scientifically observed the cosmos in order to develop their theology and their society. The rap lyrics of Mexica, indigenous, and Chicano rappers liberally refer to “gods,” natural symbols, and states. They express their understanding of many aspects of the Anahuac-centered thought espoused by the Mexica Movement.

Los Nativos and Mexica Consciousness

On Día de los Muertos (2003), the well-orchestrated, multilayered musical production of Chilam Balam (Speaker for the Jaguar People) is both funky and indigenous. The opening track, “Ometeotl,” is a “Mexica prayer.” The prayer begins with the

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sound of conch shells, shaken beads, and Mesoamerican drums. Los Nativos chant in Spanish. The second track, “Like the Indigenous,” begins with a deep bass drum pounding out a standard syncopated hip-hop beat8 and a jazz-inspired, synthesized high hat. The emcees, Chilam Balam and Felipe Cuauhtli (The Eagle) trade verses in which they rap about the many things they do that are “like the indigenous.” Throughout the compact disc, Chilam Balam uses drum machines, beads, shells, pianos, synthesizers, live drums, and other instruments to create a polyrythmic, polycultural musical background that signals the myriad cultural, political, and economic factors contributing to Los Nativos’ lyrical and artistic neo-indigenism. Los Nativos’ lyrics and flow (cadence, meter) speak to their neo-indigenist ways (identity, traditions, customs, language, values, cosmology) and militant resistance to colonialism and European domination. Cuauhtli and Chilam Balam express their indigeneity through artwork for the compact disc that evokes the ancient Mexican ritual celebration of Día de los Muertos, honoring their ancestors and affirming their understanding of the cycle of death and life. The liner notes to the CD explain that Día de los Muertos is “a traditional Mexica holiday to celebrate, honor, and remember those who have gone before us.” The inside back cover of the CD depicts three calacas (skeletons) playing music. Two hold microphones, either rapping or singing, suggesting their status as hip-hop emcees. One of these emcees is at a mixer or synthesizer (another staple of hip-hop iconography and technology). The other emcee wears an enormous feathered Mexica-style headdress and plays congas. The third calaca strums a fourstringed guitar-like instrument. The illustration recalls the famous lithographs of José Guadalupe Posada. Like Posada’s, these calacas are active and full of energy—full of rhythm and full of life. For many Mexicans, the calaca and Día de los Muertos represent the belief that death is not a finite end, but a significant point in the cycle of life and death. As such it is a potent symbol of ancient Mexica indigeneity and contemporary Mexicanness. Many Chican@/Mexican@ emcees use images and ideas related to Día de los Muertos in their art. In addition, the outside back cover includes a Tara Gatewood photo of Los Nativos in their hometown of Minneapolis/ St. Paul. This photo illustration of their urban, Midwestern indigenousness depicts the artists’ roots in hip-hop. Both artists stare defiantly into the camera. Cuauhtli wears a “hoodie,” the hip-hop fashion staple. Los Nativos are an affiliate of RhymeSayers Entertainment. RhymeSayers, home to Brother Ali, Eyedea, and Abilities and Atmosphere, are an important force in Midwestern and independent hip-hop music. With Chicano, black, white, and multiethnic artists, RhymeSayers is racially diverse. RhymeSayers is an independent music group that works on the margins of the corporate music industry. The artist affiliates of RhymeSayers claim authentic hip-hop roots. Their music is original but

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Inside cover art for Dia de los Muertos (2003) compact disc. Courtesy of Felipe Cuauhtli.

stays true to hip-hop traditions of layering of sound, mixing and sampling multiple pieces of recorded music, heavy drum and bass sounds, and emphasis on flow (Rose 1994). They also claim a politics of rebellion that has run through hip-hop since its genesis. They critique the state, race relations, oppression, and class inequality and present personal narratives of struggle in the postindustrial inner city. These artists, like many that come out of the hip-hop tradition, appropriate European and capitalist technology and fashion and use them to make their own statements (Hoch 2007). Hip-hop artists including Grandmaster Flash took the record player and used it as an instrument to play music that expressed their cultural sensibilities. The record player was not designed to be used in such a manner, but through ingenuity, drive, and desire Flash and others made it into a turntable that played a beat by scratching the needle back and forth on the record and replayed parts of songs (break beats) by spinning them backwards (Grandmaster Flash 2008). Through manipulating European and Japanese technology, they created a new musical aesthetic that spoke to the material, spiritual, and cultural conditions in which they lived.

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RhymeSayers affiliates see themselves as part of this tradition. They differentiate themselves from corporate rappers in their approach to the music, their politics, and the value systems espoused through their art. Corporate rap music is designed as a mass-produced commodity to sell to as many people as possible. Corporate rap relies on well-worn clichés about black people, sexuality, and violence to sell ghetto fantasies to suburban white teens as well as urban kids of color. It portrays the “good life” as one filled with conspicuous consumption and vice. Image (or what people call “swag”) is the primary product of corporate rap; music is secondary. Given the desire of RhymeSayers’ artists to be faithful to their understanding of hip-hop tradition and not become pop musicians, they remain peripheral to the lucrative world of the music industry. The success of these artists rests on their reception in underground hip-hop scenes across the country and through tireless self-promotion on the Internet and independent media. Their CDs and other merchandise rarely appear next to the popular rap played on the radio. Instead they receive Internet orders from MySpace and Facebook pages and sales after music shows. Their peripheral status affords them the luxury to create original music outside of the influence of corporate image makers. Unencumbered by music business executives who steal money and intellectual property from rappers,9 RhymeSayers’ artists, like many independents, own their music. The irony of their business, of course, is that while they critique imperialism and capitalism, as businessmen and producers they remain tied to the circuits of capitalism that they oppose in their lyrics. In this cultural environment, Los Nativos were established in 1996 as The Native Ones, one of the original groups of the Headshots Crew (later RhymeSayers). They have recorded two compact discs to date: Día de los Muertos (2003) and Red Star Fist (2004). They have collaborated with numerous Chicano rap artists and are ardent supporters of indigenous and Chican@ social struggles. They describe themselves on their website in the following terms: Los Nativos have polished their craft by taking all the music they have experienced to develop a Hip Hop structure accented by a broken Spanish and English flavor. With a conscious message, the lyrical style adds a political motivation, community awareness and current events of the world to give the listener a sense of what’s going on in their world. By integrating Hip Hop, Jazz, Funk, Rhythm and Blues, Tejano, Mariachi, Salsa and Cumbia, the group delivers an original musical collage of their own.10

They, like other neo-indigenist rappers, foreground the aboriginal nature of their identities, tracing their racial and cultural roots to Mesoamerican native groups, especially the Mexica/Aztec and Maya. Their chosen names illustrate this point. Identifying with indigeneity meant going through a renaming process. Groups and

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artists such as Aztlán Underground, Groundkeepers, Tolteka, Olmeca, Cihuatl Ce, and El Vuh name themselves after indigenous peoples and concepts. Through speaking their word in the tradition of the Mayan sacred book Popol Vuh, these artists/musicians redefine themselves. According to the Mayan creation story, the gods created the Earth when they spoke. “Then the earth was created by them. So it was, in truth, that they created the earth. ‘Earth!’ they said, and instantly it was made” (Popol Vuh). The very act of naming is a source of power in many sacred and secular traditions. For as Richard B. Moore (qtd. in Ball 2011, 122) points out, “Slaves and dogs are named by their masters. Free [women and] men name themselves.” Indigenous/ Mexica rappers who recognize this rename themselves and empower themselves. Like black nationalists from the Nation of Islam who often changed their slaveryimposed last name to “X,” Mexica rappers rid themselves of the names that the Spanish colonizer gave them in a symbolic gesture of decolonizing their mind. The Spanish surnames of most people of Mexican descent reflect the power relations between the conquistadores and the colonized natives of Mexico. They were forced to accept Spanish-language names and to lose their ancestral names. In an attempt to decolonize their minds, Mexica/indigenous rappers speak their names and remake their minds, bodies, and souls. They develop a “Mexica consciousness,” as described in their song “Urthawhut?” (2003). They turn the tables on the colonizers and reject their authority to define the indigenous person. Instead they recreate an indigenous cosmology, epistemology, worldview, and politics through acts of creative expression, especially the spoken word. Like the Mexica/Aztec saying adopted by the Chicano Movement, “Por mi raza, hablaré el espíritu” (For my people I will speak the spirit), Mexica/indigenist rappers use the spirit of their voices to empower their people to seek an indigenous path of justice, creativity, and spirituality.

Sonido Indígena

Los Nativos’ indigenous sound (sonido indígena) and identity, as expressed in the song “Sonido Indígena” and other works, involves two interrelated elements: aboriginality and conflict with colonizing Europeans. Los Nativos help to redefine an indigenous identity for twenty-first-century neo-indigenist Chican@s at the same time that it reflects the teachings of their indigenous elders in danza azteca (Aztec dance), sweats, and other ceremonies and educational and activist work. They examine and rework idealized understandings of the uniqueness of American indigenous life and culture. In particular, they refer to indigenous nature-society relations and Mayan cosmology. In an urban, postindustrial, twenty-first-century

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context, their redefinition of indigenous requires an analysis of the dominant white society and the history of white-native relations, including the contemporary facts of racism, inequality, and the disenfranchisement of natives and Chican@s/ Mexican@s. In addition, Los Nativos define and lay claim to an indigenous identity through the use of strategically placed indigenous sounds such as drums, rattles, and flutes. For Los Nativos, unlike much of U.S. male culture today, their identity as Mexican/indigenous men involves multiple aspects of their humanity and their culture. The hegemonic man in U.S. society is reduced to a brute as power becomes the defining characteristic of masculinity. Los Nativos examine things other than power over others by contemplating and practicing spirituality, beauty, art, and nature. In resistance to colonization, racism, and injustice, Los Nativos turn toward their indigenous culture for strength and a source of life. In call-and-response fashion in the song “Like the Indigenous,” they chant, “like the indigenous” after each aspect of native culture they continue to practice. They include “still write words,” “native rituals,” “still practice my beliefs,” “still making music,” and “still speak the tongue.” Their male indigenous identity relies heavily on resistance to colonialism and domination. Yet, this resistance is not always violent. They express this resistance through their desire to reclaim their culture in the face of domination. They strive to recover indigenous languages, belief systems, aesthetic practices, and religions. Their work suggests that their beliefs regarding nature-society relations are central to the maintenance of indigenous cultural traditions. Los Nativos use natural imagery and Mexica ontological beliefs related to nature and natural occurrences in many of their lyrics. Bodies of water such as rivers and oceans; animals, including eagles, quetzales, other birds, and jaguars; flora; earthy substances such as copal, tobacco, rocks, and sage; and forces such as fire, stars, the sun and constellations, the wind, rain, and clouds all contribute to Los Nativos’ understanding of themselves and their indigeneity. In the second verse to the song “Sonido Indígena” (2003), Felipe Cuauhtli raps, “I’m so deep in the earth / I can’t believe that you found me.” Here Cuauhtli begins to define his indigenousness through the way in which he relates to and interacts with his environment. By claiming that he is “so deep in the earth,” he expresses his intimate relationship with nature. Like his Mayan, Aztec, Lakota, and other indigenous relations,11 he has an understanding of nature premised on a closeness to it, as opposed to domination over it as in the European tradition. For Cuauhtli, as for the new Mexica activists and thinkers, a more harmonious and balanced nature-society relationship is part of what it means to be an indigenous American. His identity as indigenous requires a historical connection to the land. As such, he says in “Like the Indigenous,” “This was Indian land, is Indian land and will always be Indian land,” and then he goes on to list several native nations.

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Additionally, and more specifically, Mexican indigenous culture as redefined by Chican@s involves a certain reverence for corn. Cuauhtli continues rapping in verse 2 of “Sonido Indígena” that “My lineage lives on. / We represent the corn / from here to Californ.” Cuauhtli chooses to connect himself to his indigenous Mexican ancestors (“my lineage”) through corn imagery. Here corn stands in for his indigenousness, which has a deep historical connection to his ancestors. Corn is used as a metonym for indigenous Mexicans, whom he represents in his poetic performance. He makes this more explicit, connecting his representation of indigenous and Mexican people with the indigenous diet in the song “All My Native Vatos.” He raps: “Representin’ mis antepasados [my ancestors] / past, present, future. Livin’ the life / I had to crush average mc’s with my beans and rice.” Representin’ is an important concept in hip-hop. Much of what hip-hop fans and performers do is represent themselves. Given the way in which others have represented and continue to represent people of color, especially youth of color, in the media and popular culture,12 self-representation or representin’ is vital to redefining their denigrated identities. Through representin’—whether via graffiti, breakdancing, rapping, or personal style, language, and attitude—this generation lays claim to the subjectivity that is required in order to challenge dominant institutions and systems. Representin’ allows those in the Hip Hop Nation to overcome simple, degrading, and destructive identities imposed by the broader, white-dominated society and its institutions, including media, schools, and government. In these lines, Cuauhtli “represent[s] the corn” or the progeny of pre-Columbian Mexicans from the Midwest to California (“from here to Californ”). The rapper is defining himself and others of Mexican descent in the United States as indigenous people with an intimate relationship to nature, especially corn. Additionally, through his association with corn, a food unique to the Americas, Cuauhtli challenges beliefs that Mexicans are immigrants or foreigners. Instead, he argues that Mexicans and their ancestors who have been breeding corn for hundreds, even thousands, of years are among the first “Americans.” As such they have as much or more claim to life here as anyone else. Referencing this idea, Cuauhtli raps: “We’ve traveled this continent in uncountable numbers. / It’s funny when you want to call my people border jumpers. / You crossed the Ocean. We crossed the river / and we’re the wetbacks. How the hell you figure?” The links to an indigenous Mexican past is also made through expressing another aspect of pre-Columbian Mexican culture: cosmology. Throughout the song, Los Nativos make references to themselves as “Mayan scientist(s)” or “cosmic navigator(s).” They also rap that “Los Na [is] comin’ live from the third planet.” These references suggest that their interpretation of Mayan cosmology is an important influence on their worldview. Mayan life and spirituality revolved, in part, around careful astronomical observation. Contemporary Mexica and Mexican indigenist

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thought has attempted to revive a lifestyle and spirituality using Mayan astronomy, especially as rendered in Mayan notions of time as cyclical. Many Mexica rappers, artists, and activists adopt Mayan understandings of time by appealing to their ideas of sacred and secular calendars. In particular, much has been made over the last forty years of the ideas of the Fifth and Sixth Suns. The suns represent unique eras in Mayan cosmology. Each sun signals a rebirth. Mayan astronomers calculated that every 520 years Venus completed a cycle. They believed that along with this alignment a new age would come into being. The new age would begin with cataclysmic or revolutionary events. The current era or sun is the fifth. Thus, many during the Chican@ Movement referred to Chican@s as sons and daughters of the Fifth Sun. This era begins in 1492, the first year of European invasion of the Americas. The series of events that take place between Columbus’s arrival and the early years of the Spanish colonial period constituted a complete upheaval of indigenous American society. The prediction of revolutionary change came true. Additionally, with the arrival of Cortés to Mexico in 1519, the mestizo was born; Mexicans and Chican@s are people of the Fifth Sun. Importantly for many Mexica activists and artists, the Fifth Sun is coming to a close. In December of 2012 a new era will begin. The Sixth Sun promises a new age. While the coming of the Sixth Sun has been predicted by some to be the end of the world, others see a more hopeful era. They predict a return of the indigenous to prominence in the Americas. If the Fifth Sun saw indigenous enslavement, genocide, and impoverishment, the Sixth Sun holds out promises for a renewed indigenous society in which indigenous worldview, spirituality, forms of governance, and resources, especially the land, will develop or return. For Los Nativos and other Chican@ indigenous rappers, phenotype, especially skin color, is a central marker of their indigeneity. They often refer to themselves as brown or red, and to their oppressors as white or pale. In the Los Nativos song “All My Native Vatos,” they have “dark skin” and “long hair.” In other songs, they represent the “red nation” (“Like the Indigenous”), come from the “brown jurisdiction” (“Sonido Indígena”), or refer to themselves as “red warriors” (“Con Tivos”). Other indigenous/ Mexica rappers similarly use phenotype as a way to distinguish themselves, and as a source of pride. For example, Tolteka raps (2008) about his “brown, brown baby doll [girlfriend],” and El Vuh (2007) raps about being “red road warriors.” This reference to their skin color and other aspects of their phenotype signals difference from their perceived enemy, “white” people, and places their superiority in their genetic makeup. Race or phenotype is used as a primary marker of difference and their supposed superiority in much the same manner that European colonizers used it to justify their domination of Africans, Indians and other Asians, and pre-Columbian Americans. Just as racist ideas were used to justify colonialism and violence by

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Europeans, Los Nativos and other Mexica/indigenous rappers use them to wage symbolic warfare on their oppressors. This is not to suggest that the situations are equivalent, but to point out the irony of using “the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house.”13 On the other hand, while this can be seen as a use of the master’s tools, one might also see this type of rhetoric as an act of strategic essentialism. Mexica rappers essentialize Chican@/native identity at a strategic moment in order to unify Chican@s in the cause of struggling against oppression. Such struggle is a key aspect of indigenous identity. American aboriginality or indigenous identity today is closely tied to nativewhite relations, both historically and in their contemporary form. Those involved in activist movements for Chican@/Mexican@ and/or Native American rights and empowerment identified strongly with warrior images. They were men who protected their people, using violence when necessary. This social bandit/warrior image and perspective involved Chican@s adopting an oppositional stance and attitude to the white colonizer.14 Los Nativos express this attitude in “Sonido Indígena” and other songs. Los Nativos rap, “I’ll take power from the gringo [white].” Here, in a reversal of roles common in hip-hop and the music, stories, and literature of many people of color, they place themselves in the role of the dominant, and the racial others, “whites,” become the inferior and powerless. For Los Nativos, their indigeneity results in part from their resistance to racist, colonial structures and their fight on behalf of their people. Like the members of the Mexica Movement, they envision themselves as revolutionaries. In “Sonido Indígena” they rap: “Y soy las voces de los muertos de mi nación. / Mi canción / de la revolución / es mi pasión” [I’m the voices of the dead of my nation. / My revolutionary song is my passion]. The resistance to domination uses violence as a primary tactic. The final verse of “Sonido Indígena” explains: “This is a war zone homes. / Are you ready to bust up in they homes / invade their space and take the things they own / like they do our sacred places where we bury our bones?” Here Los Nativos speak to their “recruits.” They explain that the situation they are in is akin to a war zone. They ask if the recruits are ready to attack and pay back the colonizer for disrespecting native sacred places such as burial sites, and stealing native resources. In the song “All My Native Vatos,” Los Nativos tie indigenous identity, male identity, and violent resistance together. The song speaks to indigenous/Chicano men or native vatos. They rap using a well-worn cliché about native people: “All my native vatos wave your ax in the air. / Scalp a muthafucka like you just don’t care.” They describe the situation “as revolutionary warfare brothers and sisters / a patrol in the Los Nativos militia / resurrect Nahua ancient tongue / When it’s all said and done / I’m still standing / Native Ones.” They are fighting to bring back the dominance of the Aztec language, Nahua. They fight to rid their communities of harmful substances

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and people. They say, “Media, you’re killin’ me. / Alcohol, you’re killin’ me. / Tobacco, you’re killin’ me. / Government, you’re killin’ me. / Gangsta pimps, you’re really killin’ me.” To be a real vato or Mexican/indigenous man is to be a warrior—to be strong and potentially violent. Like most understandings of maleness in U.S. society today, the man from Los Nativos’ perspective is hypermasculine, with his identity closely linked to his dominance and ability to fight back against oppression.

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Guerrilleras and Suffering Women: Gender Politics in Mexica Rap

Mexica rap and hip-hop are dominated by men. As in other subgenres of rap and hip-hop, the biggest names and most successful groups and artists are male. This male-dominated space reinforces male perspectives as men interact with men. Female perspectives are mostly absent. In the following, I argue that while Mexica rappers are no more sexist than other rappers or the general male population of the United States, and in many cases are much more progressive relative to women than most, they view women in limited ways and have a gender ideology based on patriarchal notions of strict roles for women and men. Mexica/indigenist rappers display their outlook on gender and women in that women are rarely discussed in their lyrics. As José Limón (1994) finds in relation to the lyrics of corridos (the male-dominated Mexican and Mexican American ballad genre), women are mostly invisible as actors in Mexica rap. In only a very few songs are women highlighted as subjects and agents in their own right. For Los Nativos and others, women play a secondary role of wife and mother to men. For most patriarchal men, women’s value results from their ability to serve and otherwise benefit men.15 In Mexica rap, as in most Chicano/Mexicano expressive culture, women are passive objects with little and limited agency. When not serving men, they are acted upon by men. For example, in “All My Nativo Vatos,” a song that is directed at aggressive, warrior-type Chicano men, women are seen as “tribal honeys” when they are told to get a man. They rap: “All my tribal honeys in the house tonight / find a warrior and hold him down tight.” Women at this performance/event should get a man, while men (“native vatos,” “warriors”) are encouraged to be much more active in determining their lives through struggle with oppressive forces. They put women in passive and subordinate positions as aesthetic objects to men’s active “warrior” subjectivity. Women are sweet. Men are strong. Mexica artists and other Chicanos see female sexuality as a valuable service. Tolteka’s song “Brown Baby Girl” (2008) focuses his masculine gaze on brown/ indigenous women. He addresses all brown women, including “Chicanas, Mexicanas, Tapatias . . . Boricuas . . . and Jarochas,” saying that he loves the way they look. In

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the chorus he raps repeatedly: “Me encanta tu forma de arte . . . brown, brown baby doll / brown bomb baby doll.” The first verse opens with Tolteka saying, “I’m thinkin’ about sex, sex.” Later in the verse he tells his brown baby doll that “I can be your amigo. / Simón, your friend / maybe something else. / Let’s not pretend. / I respect just let me know. / Give me a little sign and we can let it flow.” Here Tolteka shows his appreciation for a sexy brown-skinned woman. He claims to respect her and is willing to be her friend if that is what she wants. But, he lets her know that he would like to be more than friends. Tolteka’s song is a fairly innocent flirtation with women. It is fun and danceable. With the eye of a secret admirer, he tells them that he appreciates their beauty, their art form, and that they take his breath away. He wants them to see themselves as “indigenous princesses.” The lyrics do not delve into the overtly sexist and demeaning, like so much of corporate rap music, but it is noticeable that women are spoken about in terms of their relationship to men, and valued for the pleasure that men derive from seeing them. In other words, the song remains well within the paradigm of the masculine gaze. The woman is object. She is the passive recipient of the male rapper’s attention. Her agency and subjectivity are invisible. In the next song on the disc, Tolteka raps about an old love. “Ya Estuvo Amor” features a beautiful chorus sung by Zitlali Star Acosta. She sings: “Creo que ya estuvo / aunque sí te amo mucho [I believe it (love) is over / even though, yes, I love you a lot].” Tolteka dedicates this song to his former love (“Dedico esta canción a mi querida amada”). Zitlali Star’s chorus and Tolteka’s lyrics remember their love fondly. They hope that each recalls their love positively. Tolteka ends the song saying, “Ojalá, que un día los dos podamos estar felices [I hope that one day we both can be happy].” Again, Tolteka stays away from sexist imagery so common in corporate rap music today. He tells of a respectful, mutual love and wishes his former love well. He speaks well of her throughout the song. This song is far from the hypermasculine, but does not address gender inequity nor is it feminist. The female voice is marginalized, as it is in most male expressive culture. She sings two lines that affirm what the subject-author, Tolteka, says repeatedly. The majority of the action comes from Tolteka. If he wanted to present the female counterpart, he could have easily given more time in the song and throughout the compact disc to female rappers and singers. Mexica/indigenist emcees El Vuh’s song “Native Sisters” from their second compact disc (ElVuhlution 2007) presents a slightly more complex picture of women. In typical style they urge listeners to “respect” their mothers and wives. How they might show respect is not discussed, but they do tell us why we should respect women. Men should respect women because they are the “backbone / the foundation of a strong home.” El Vuh claims further that

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You represent the strength in our community because of you we have this longevity. 5–13 years of resistance due to your love and persistence. I want to thank you for your insistence continuing our existence. Your endurance prevented a complete holocaust and if not for you the culture would have been lost. I know it’s been at great personal cost and because of that we see today.

As in much of male-centered expressive culture, women who are related to and serve men are given the most respect. “Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives” are named in the song. All other nonrelated women are not identified. They could have given thanks to lawyers, teachers, spiritual advisors, organizers, and other active women. Instead they highlight and feature female relatives who serve them. In patriarchal societies, women are respected for their assigned roles as creator and sustainer. Because of this role assignment, women are seen as being closer to nature. Within this patriarchal heteronormative paradigm, mothers are given particular prominence and are equated with creation and nature. In verse 3 of “Native Sisters” El Vuh raps: Your lives and love kept us afloat. When all else fails you bring hope Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

and inspiration. Raisin[g] a nation, you are the source of all creation. That’s why I believe that a woman’s the Creator. Just look at Mother Earth and Mother Nature. Grandmother Moon it’s through your womb that our life’s derived and continues to shine and every guy in the place knows that it’s true.

The good woman, the valued woman, is the mother. El Vuh essentializes women to their biological functions and reifies notions of the womb and creation. They reduce women to their reproductive functions. Their essence and the source of their value are in procreation and nurturing. Nurturing women suffer for their children and communities. This madre dolorosa (suffering mother) figure is common in patriarchal Mexican/Chicano culture.16 The Mother has the burden of maintaining culture, people, and community. Men leave to women the responsibility of caring and transmitting culture. Since men’s roles do not include nurturing, women are often left on their own in this task.

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In verse 4, the members of El Vuh rap in Spanish describing this role for women:

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Este es dedicada a las madres solteras

[This is dedicated to the single mothers

defendiendo a los hijos. Hermanas guerrilleras

defending their children. Warrior sisters

cruzando frontera. Creador de todo.

crossing borders. Creator of everything.]

Toward the end of the verse, they ask forgiveness for all the suffering that their mothers have gone through. While El Vuh essentialize women, they also see women as more than mere passive objects or mothers as in most patriarchal culture. They see women as physically, mentally, and spiritually strong. El Vuh borrows another trope from Mexican/Chicano culture when describing strong women: the guerrillera. The soldadera (female soldier during the Mexican Revolution) is one of the enduring icons of Mexican/Chican@ resistance. La soldadera shows up as a guerrillera in “Native Sisters.” In “Triumph” (2007) El Vuh collaborate with Chicana indigenous rapper Lady Binx (now Kiawitl) of the group Almas Intocables.17 In this song about fighting and triumphing over colonialism and racism, Lady Binx presents indigenous womanhood as warrior at the same time that she promotes a spiritual relationship to the Creator. Binx calls for “opposition to oppression.” She raps: “Revolution comes in stones and forms of violence / on these oppressors. Bullets turning screams into silence. / There can be no submission to Bush’s evil opposition. / Just listen to your heartbeat and hear the Creator’s wisdom.” Here Binx sees revolution and struggle against governments as violent and spiritual. She expresses her opposition to the former presidency of George W. Bush. At the same time that the oppressor is defeated, it remains important to maintain contact with the Creator. Her active, even violent perspective as an indigenous woman differs drastically from the passive and nurturing woman found in male-dominated expressive culture. Kiawitl identifies indigenous women as warriors. The lyrics to her solo work, and collaborations with other artists and with her group, Almas Intocables, show women as active subjects playing numerous roles in their communities. In contrast to the limited images men have of women as venerated mothers or sex objects,18 Kiawitl shows how within traditional Mexica culture women can be warriors who struggle on behalf of their people. On her Web page, she explains her perspective: The philosophy behind the Ollin allowed the admission of women in the Warrior Order centuries before the first feminist consciousness and movements; their beliefs said that a host of women warriors accompanied the Sun in the second half of its journey through the sky, so it was only natural to accept women into the new Order. Women can achieve the same rank and the same power as any Jaguar or Eagle Knight.19

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Kiawitl argues for seeing traditional indigenous/Mexica gender relations in more complex and egalitarian ways than do her male counterparts. While in the lyrics of Mexica rappers men are the agents of action who resist colonialism, Kiawitl places women at the center of indigenous culture, history, and struggle. Like Kiawitl, Cihuatl Ce’s20 indigenous womanhood is a complex mix of traditional passive female roles and atypical behaviors and outlooks. Her music reflects her life as an indigenous/Mexica woman who resists colonialism, capitalism, and patriarchy. Her solo music and work with her group, Cihuatl Tonalli, pushes the boundaries of hip-hop, indigenous, and world music. This work celebrates womanhood as intensely as it condemns oppression. On her website she writes that violence in communities of color is “born as an adverse reaction to the sickness brought by the initial invaders of our sacred land, manifested through capitalism and imposed on people of color daily through white supremacy.” Cihautl Ce easily combines her identities as mother and warrior. Unlike most male rappers, including indigenous/ Mexica rappers who see nurturers as women and warriors as men, Cihautl Ce sees no contradiction in women taking on both roles. In her song “We Run This,” she repeatedly refers to women (“ghetto queens”) as warriors. In a spoken introduction to the song, Cihuatl dedicates the song to mothers. Mothers in this song are in control. They “run this.” Cihuatl repeats this perspective in “Da People Speak.” This song exemplifies the attitude that women can struggle against oppression while caring for children in a mother role. In one exemplary line she raps, “This is war / when our kids are getting killed.” Along with celebration and encouragement of women and resistance to colonialism, Cihuatl Ce, like other indigenous/Mexica rappers, speaks and writes about “the betterment and preservation of Tonantzin (mother earth).” In an effort to connect contemporary Chican@s to their indigenous ancestors, Cihautl Ce and indigenous/ Mexica rappers interrogate notions of racial and ethnic identity. In “Infinite” she uses cosmic and naturalistic language to argue that indigenous/Chican@s are essentially a people close to the earth. Over a very sparse beat she repeats the question “Did you forget who you are?” She then goes on to describe in imagistic language who she believes them to be. She opens the song saying that contemporary Chican@s come from “the smoke made signals / fire clouds of embers from out of our Earth Mother’s breath / I float from the brown curves of her breasts.” Cihuatl Ce asserts that indigenous people come from nature. Importantly, the Earth Mother (Tonantzin) is brown-skinned like indigenous people. Cihuatl Ce’s discussion of Tonantzin continues the focus on this iconic figure in Chicana and Chicano expressive culture. Chican@/Mexican Catholicism reflects the worship of a brown-skinned mother in Mexican culture. The Catholic Church replaced the worship of Tonantzin with the

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worship of the Virgen de Guadalupe. Today, Mexicans see the Virgen de Guadalupe as a coequal of Jesus Christ. She is prayed to as Christians might pray to Jesus or Mexicas might pray to Tonantzin. Additionally, Cihuatl Ce raps about obsidian, pyramids, and astrology in much the same manner as Los Nativos and other Mexica rappers. She attaches her Mexica/indigenous identity to natural and cosmic phenomena. Mexica women emcees revere the Mother as do their male counterparts. However, their Mother is a more complex character who plays diverse and complex roles.

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Conclusion

Los Nativos’ sonido indígena is informed by their urban hip-hop roots and experience. Chilam Balam’s musical production fuses indigenous sounds and sensibilities with an urban hip-hop and Chicano understanding or barriology. Along with ideas and outlook of their indigenous ancestors, Los Nativos’ lyrics show the importance of urban Chicanidad, including lowrider car culture, tattooing, and language use. On Red Star Fist, Los Nativos describe their love of lowriders and lowriding while giving the listener a sense of the lowrider lifestyle in Minnesota. The funk bassdriven music is infused with the sounds of hydraulics and car engines. Amid the descriptions of cruising and details about their Chevy lowriders, Los Nativos shout out (recognize in their lyrics) Los Padrinos car club. Lowriding car clubs have been a feature of Chicano male culture since at least the 1950s. Lowrider vatos (guys), as Felipe Cuauhtli calls them, have historically chosen one street to cruise in each city. Los Nativos inform us that in San Antonio the chosen stretch of road is Military Drive, and in St. Paul it is University. The funk-based musical production of Chilam Bilam alerts us that at the root of neo-indigenous Chicano rap are African musical sensibilities. Bilam’s multiple syncopated rhythms played on a wide variety of instruments are part of the West African musical aesthetic that has remained an important force in American music since the 1600s, when Africans were enslaved in the United States, the Caribbean, and Latin America. Los Nativos are also hip-hop. Their aesthetic, worldview, music, attitude, and lyrics reflect hip-hop culture as it has developed since the 1970s. For example, using a record player and record as an instrument, hip-hop DJs have been adding rhythm to their songs since the late 1970s, when Grandmaster Theodore invented the art of scratching and Grandmaster Flash developed and popularized it. The third member of Los Nativos, Tecpatl, joined the group for their second release. He provides nearly all of the scratches on the EP. Los Nativos’ lyrics attempt to instill in urban, working-class Chican@s/

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Mexican@s an understanding of their heritage and themselves as neo-indigenist Mayan/Mexica. They resent representations of Mexicans as rendered by dominant institutions. Through their lyrics they argue against the stereotypical lazy Mexican, greaser, the ruthless urban gangbanger, drug dealer, killer, or foreigner to these lands that is found in the representations of the dominant U.S. culture. Indigenous people, including those of Mexican origin, are spiritual, honorable, intelligent, and respectful. They honor and respect “all our relations” and use an Earth-based knowledge combined with an indigenous cosmology to develop nature-society relations that benefit both humans and nature. Los Nativos and other indigenous/Mexica rappers use their hip-hop expressiveness to put forth a vision of urban Mexican indigeneity at odds with colonialism, racism, and capitalism. While their indigenous perspective and politics rely heavily on the indigenism of the Chicano Movement that created a new mythology out of archaeological theory, indigenous rappers do as diasporic and colonized people always do and reinvent themselves with a mix of ancestral tradition and contemporary culture. As Juan Flores (1997, 189) suggests, “Memory fuels desire; the past as imagined from a Latino perspective awakens an anticipatory sense of what is, or what might be, in store.” Whether or not critics like Contreras are correct that Chican@ neo-indigenism is inauthentic and ahistorical, these indigenist/Mexica thinkers reimagine or remember the past in a way that allows them to consider a different future than the one promised by a white-supremacist, racist colonial project that is the history of the United States. Instead of being weak, savage, and backward, Mexica emcees and others remember a past of greatness and indigenous control. In a manner similar to the Dominican musicians Rivera (2010) examines, they present a set of liberation mythologies that redefine and re-present themselves. They develop an essentialized self-understanding that posits a number of “positive” traits that result from their indigenousness. From this identity they are able to challenge their disempowerment in our society. In addition, Los Nativos’ hip-hop indígena reflects the ongoing process of mestizaje that has characterized Mexican-based cultures. This new millennial mestizaje is multiracial and multiethnic and develops in working-class Mexican/Chican@ communities of the postindustrial period in United States history.21 The music and lyrics of indigenous/Mexica rappers illustrate an oppositional consciousness at the heart of contemporary Chican@ indigenity. While their rhetorics of resistance provide a forceful criticism of capitalism, colonialism, and racism, their claims to developing a more equitable society with superior nature-society relations will fall short as women and their ideas are marginalized and made into passive spectators of male warrior action. The patriarchal heteronormative understanding of the world,

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and especially of gender, severely limits the possibilities that the neo-indigenist cultural and political movement can lead to a more equitable, open, and just world. Fortunately, female voices such as Kiawitl and Cihuatl Ce are beginning to challenge the male dominance of indigenous/Mexica hip-hop.

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CHA PTER 4

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Paísas, Compas, Inmigrantes: Mexicanidad in Hip-Hop

This chapter seeks to address similar questions as the previous. Here, instead of a neo-indigenist Mexican diasporic youth identity, I examine what I call a Mexican national identity and an immigrant identity. Mexican-born youth who have spent most of their lives in the United States (the 1.5 generation) have concerns and issues that differ from the urban Chicano neo-indigenous youth or other U.S.-born youth of Mexican descent. While they have much in common with the Chicano segment of people of Mexican descent, their residency status, proximity to Mexican culture, and experiences with U.S. institutions such as education and immigration agencies add additional layers of difficulty to their lives. Thus, their rhetorics of resistance and their ethnic identities differ from the U.S.-born Mexican. I explore questions about whether the immigrant and Mexican national identities as presented in hip-hop are resistant identities that could contribute to a liberatory politics. Issues of power and domination relative to gender, sexuality, familia, and freedom are of particular concern. In addition, I argue from the anarchist viewpoint that a nationalist perspective that obscures class difference has limited utility for revolutionary working-class and anticolonial movements. Yet, the identity construction examined in this chapter provides insight into the 1.5 generation of U.S.-Mexican youth who n

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constitute an important segment of the U.S. and global working class. Thus, it is important to understand this identity and political orientation, and engage these youth in a critical dialogue with decolonial, feminist, and anarchist ideas.

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The Mexican National Identity

About the “Godfather of Chicano Hip Hop,” Kid Frost, Perez-Torres writes (2006, 327) that his “construction of community highlights the mestizo qualities of a postrevolutionary Mexican nationalist discourse that has in so many ways shaped images of Chicano racial and cultural identities.” Groups like Kinto Sol (Milwaukee), Mexiclan (San Pedro, California), Chingo Bling (Houston), and Akwid (Los Angeles) show their connection to Mexico and a Mexican national identity in their lyrics, sounds, and imagery. As Perez-Torres explains regarding the work of Kid Frost, many of these Mexican@/Chican@ emcees express themselves through the lens of Mexican nationalism. This nationalism and its expression include references to iconic legends and historical figures, common cultural practices, struggles in the United States, and a Mexican masculinity. While each of these groups is firmly rooted in hip-hop culture and music, their hip-hop sensibility is informed in important ways by this postrevolutionary Mexican nationalist discourse and their Mexican identity—including, importantly, their status as immigrants or children of immigrants. Further, the music and lyrics of these emcees illustrate the polycultural nature of twenty-first-century Mexicanidad. Additionally, in the face of an increasing anti-immigrant attitude and political climate in the United States, the “border writing” of these groups provides “an alternative narrative” of the border, life in the United States, and the definition of “America.” Their work provides answers to the question posed by José David Saldívar in Border Matters (1997, 1): “How do undocumented and documented migrants in the U.S.-Mexico borderlands secure spaces of survival and selfrespect in light of the government’s doctrine of low-intensity conflict and in regions undergoing what social theorists call deindustrialization—the decline of traditional manufacturing?” They examine Mexican@ relationships with dominant institutions such as the police, the border patrol, schools, and workplaces, and present a critique of these institutions and strategies for overcoming Mexican@/ Chican@ oppression that relies on such common tropes as indigeneity, familia, and nationalism. All of this and more constitute the Mexican nationalist identity within Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop. The work of these and similar artists challenge the monocultural logic and monolingual assumptions of the dominant ideal “America.” Akwid, Kinto Sol, Mexiclan, and Chingo Bling provide bilingual, bicultural, and

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multilayered counter-narratives to the “American” mythos of assimilation, freedom, opportunity, and racial harmony.

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The Trope of La Familia

Richard T. Rodriguez’s (2009) groundbreaking work on the trope of la familia in Chican@ cultural production provides a genealogy of how the idea of family has served Chican@ nationalist cultural politics, and how a conservative, heteronormative, patriarchal family ideal has marginalized and othered the sexual Others: women and gays and lesbians. One can understand the cultural nationalists’ turn towards family as a site of resistance since the colonized subjects’ family structures are always under attack. However, Chican@ cultural nationalists’ (and this includes most Chicano emcees) fealty to the heteronormative patriarchal family causes one to ask, “Who counts as raza?” Do women count? Gays and lesbians? Multiracial Chican@s and Mexican@s? Since at least the Chicano Movement of the 1960s and 1970s, the family has served as a “symbol and organizing principle” (Rodriguez 2009, 2). Chicano nationalism—like all nationalisms, it seems—is “frequently figured through the iconography of familial and domestic space” (McClintock, qtd. in Rodriguez, 4). While I do not wish to dismiss the family or nationalism outright as conservative and problematic, the perpetuation of “family” and “nationalism” by men to serve a heteropatriarchal order that privileges men as the head of household means that broadening these terms so as to be inclusive of all people of Mexican descent amounts to a Sisyphean task. The heteronormative patriarchal “family” and “nation” have limited potential as foundational principles for a liberatory anticolonial and decolonial politics. As Rodriguez shows, the founding documents of Chicano Movement organizations and early Chican@ literature and art enshrined the heteronormative patriarchal family as key to the struggle for Chican@ rights and equality. In efforts to develop a strong and proud Chican@ people, Chican@ nationalists promoted what they believed to be traditional notions of gender, sexuality, and family. According to this logic, a strong nation required a strong, male-headed household. This familial nationalism necessarily leaves out those who do not fit the mold. Its continued use in Chicano/ Mexicano hip-hop, among other sites of cultural production and activist work, should cause us to question whether a “nationalism from below” can truly lead to a more democratic, egalitarian world, or merely to a heteronormative, patriarchal society with brown men in positions of power. Can the notions of la familia and nationalism be recuperated and put to use by those who have been othered by their past and present usage? Can we develop a “queer Aztlán” that abolishes all

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authoritarian structures while liberating Chican@s/Mexican@s? Can “queering” the family and nation offer colonized people more inclusive, more liberatory options? While Rodríguez (2009, 2003) and Moraga (1993) believe that alternative kinship networks, including “chosen families,” can be marshaled as a means of liberation, the manner in which Chicano/Mexicano emcees use la familia leaves little room for this type of recuperation. Groups like Kinto Sol that express a Mexican/Chican@ nationalist identity center family and raza in their identities. They are Mexican. From this perspective, to be a Mexican man means to be a family man with pride (orgullo) in his people (raza). While the groups discussed in this chapter do not develop their identities through overt denigration and violent opposition to gays and lesbians, as do many artists in the HHN, their rap poems privilege the macho heterosexual and render others invisible. Sergio de la Mora’s (2006) study of masculinity and sexuality in Mexican cinema argues that “historically the concept of machismo . . . is an integral component of Mexican nationalism” (6). During the cultural period of the Mexican Revolution from the 1920s through the 1940s, “a particular form of masculinity . . . was aggressively promoted by the cultural nationalist post-revolutionary establishment” (2). In the dichotomous, hegemonic gender and sexuality order, the “macho” must have an “opposite.” The joto (or the leva or chavala discussed earlier) is an important element in establishing the ideal heterosexual, hypermasculine Mexican man. As such, in Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop, the figures of the joto, chavala, and leva are juxtaposed with the macho Mexican/Chicano man’s virility and strength, or rendered invisible or anomalous in the Mexican@/Chican@ family (and, by extension, nation). The voices of Chicano/Mexicano emcees invoke a physical and spiritual strength that they believe necessary for the Chican@/Mexican@ struggle for civil rights, access to valued resources, and a cultural renaissance among people of Mexican descent (while seeking solidarity with other colonized groups). They seek to reform the state and economy rather than providing an anticapitalist vision of group organization. Their male heterosexual strength implicitly denies subjectivity and agency to Chicanas and Chican@ queers. In the end, their nationalist proposal for subverting colonial and racist structures places them squarely within the hegemonic, heteronormative, masculinist framework that has denied personhood, citizenship, and humanity to many Chican@s and other colonial subjects. Mexican@/Chican@ use of family and nationalism is discussed below, using Kinto Sol’s aptly named La Sangre Nunca Muere (Blood Never Dies) as exemplar. First, an introduction to the music of Kinto Sol.

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The Soul of Kinto Sol

Consisting of three García brothers, Milwaukee’s Kinto Sol have found a large following among Mexican@ kids in the Midwest and West. They rap primarily in Spanish about their lives as Midwestern Mexican@s and their Mexicanidad. Their discussion of Mexicanidad is informed by their upbringing in the Midwest, which includes hip-hop. The emcees’ lyrics and stories flow from the musical production of DJ Payback García. Payback has been incredibly prolific. Some of his recorded work includes all of Kinto Sol’s official releases (Del Norte al Sur, Hecho en Mexico, La Sangre Nunca Muere, Los Hijos del Maíz, Carcel de Sueños, and Ultimo Suspiro) and his mixtapes, such as his three-volume Hecho en Aztlan, two-volume Brown Life, and two-volume Aztec Souls. He has developed a unique signature style, even as it is firmly rooted in hip-hop production styles and approaches to music that include a heavy, steady boom-bap rhythm, layering of sounds, emphasis on extremely deep bass sounds, experimentation with instruments and sounds, sampling, looping, and simple, mesmerizing, and repetitive melodies. Payback’s latest work, Kinto Sol’s compact disc El Ultimo Suspiro (2010), exemplifies his style. Songs such as “A.E.I.O.U.,” “Grano de Arena,” and “2 de Noviembre” illustrate Payback’s musical skill. As they explain in its introduction, the song “A.E.I.O.U.” has nothing to do with vowels, but began when one of the members of Kinto Sol and his daughter were driving and she began to chant the vowels in Spanish. The melody she created inspired a song rich in rhythm, deep in meaning, funky, and thoroughly enjoyable, as one can sing along while children chant “A.E.I.O.U.” Payback’s music works on a number of levels as it is at once mature and profound in its rhythmic foundation, and young, sweet, and melodic in its hook and underlying guitar and piano figures. After a brief introduction, the music begins with a crashing cymbal; a deep bass note signaling the repeated, measure-long funk figure that appears once every couple of measures; a high hat playing even half-notes with an accent on the third beat of the measure; and a distorted and slowed down handclap. Later, a funky piano figure and “boom-boom bap” bass drum rhythm enter the mix, followed by a piano playing a soft, simple broken-chord melody and perfectly placed funk guitar riffs. The piano and bass locate the music in the blues tradition. The bass figure is essentially a walking-bass playing a minor chord in quarter notes outlining the song’s melody. The piano plays a simple melody based on a minor scale in syncopated blues style. It is high in the register and sweet. It comes in to highlight the funkiness of the melody created by the children’s singing of “A.E.I.O.U” and the sweetness of their high-pitched voices.

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While Kinto Sol’s music is puro hip hop (pure hip-hop), their lyrics explore and express Mexican life in the urban Midwest, their loyalty to their raza, resistance to anti-Mexican stereotyping and discrimination, and their orgullo mexicano (Mexican pride). Nearly all of Kinto Sol’s songs reference these themes. Their lyrics, which are almost exclusively in Spanish, indicate how deeply Kinto Sol is steeped in Mexican@ communities and traditions. The songs analyzed below help us understand how they, and by extension their legions of fans,1 experience new millennial Mexicanidad in the urban Midwest.

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KINTO SOL’S URBAN MIDWEST MEXICANIDAD

Payback’s ever-present, unrelenting high hat works to set the mood for the emcees’ in-your-face, prideful Mexicanidad. Kinto Sol describes and analyzes their lives as Mexicans living in the urban U.S. Midwest growing up in the age of hip-hop. Their lyrics forcefully argue for freedom and creative expression, racial and ethnic pride, and resistance to barrioization and racism. One easily observes that the members of Kinto Sol identify and attempt to speak on behalf of the Mexican diaspora. Kinto Sol’s song and compact-disc names express their Mexicanidad. They include Hecho en Mexico (2004, both an album and song title), “Raza Es Raza” (2004), and “Somos Mexicanos” (2010). Other titles indirectly signal a strong Mexicanidad among Kinto Sol members. They include the aforementioned La Sangre Nunca Muere, Del Norte a Sur, Hijos de Maíz, and “Hijo del Tercer Mundo.” Compact-disc art and merchandise portray an identity rooted in iconic Mexican symbols. Kinto Sol iconography includes the “hecho en Mexico” quetzalcoatl symbol indicating that a product is made in Mexico, calaveras, stylized Aztec calendars, sombreros, guerrilleros, the Mexican flag, Olmec heads, Mayan carvings, and images of Villa and Zapata on clothing, posters, bandanas, notebooks, and other merchandise. Their band name references the Mayan notion of suns or eras discussed earlier. Throughout their lyrics, the members of Kinto Sol pay respect to their ethnic and national roots. They also indicate a connection to Chican@s/Mexican@s throughout the Mexican diaspora via shouting-out names of different regions in the United States and Greater Mexico where Mexican@s reside. Their song “T.I.E.R.R.A.” exemplifies this tactic as Kinto Sol members shout out each state in Mexico. For most of the states and regions of Mexico, they mention something iconic or well-known. For example, when shouting out the state of Guanajuato, they mention José Alfredo Jimenez, and for Guerrero they mention rebel leader Lucio Cabañas. The state of Jalisco brings us the mariachi, and Nuevo León contains many industrial parks and maquiladoras. They recognize the heterogeneity of the Mexican diaspora by listing different

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types of Mexican@s in a number of songs. The spoken skit “Un Compa” illustrates this awareness. This track is placed just before the Mexican-pride song “Raza es Raza.” “Un Compa” consists of a monologue by a man who insists that Kinto Sol make a song for compas (short for “compadres,” used colloquially as “friend”) who are recent Mexican immigrants to the United States and maintain ties to their country of origin. They speak Spanish almost exclusively and are likely to have a culture rooted in the Mexican countryside. The compa tells members of Kinto Sol in Northern Mexican Spanish: Quiero saber porqué no hacer canción por los compas. Siempre haz unas por los cholos, las cholas. Haz una por los compas. También, hay compas. . . . Todos somos raza. Todos. Cholos, cholas, compas. Qué no? [I want to know why you don’t do a song for the compas. You always do them for the cholos, the cholas. Make one for the compas. There are also compas. We are all raza. All

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of us. Cholos, cholas, compas. Right?!]

The speaker acknowledges one division among many in communities of the Mexican diaspora. This division is based primarily on immigration status and level of assimilation to the U.S. dominant culture. Compas are assumed to be recent immigrants who have a strong connection to Mexico and Mexican culture. Cholos and cholas represent U.S.-born Mexicans. They use English, listen to hip-hop and other popular U.S. music, and have adopted and adapted other aspects of U.S. culture. He sees both groups as raza or Mexican. Therefore, Kinto Sol, as Mexicans, should have songs about them both. “Raza Es Raza” explores this idea further. In the song, the members of Kinto Sol proclaim their Mexicanidad and their fealty to both compas and cholos. At the same time, they call for all Mexicans to recognize that they are the same regardless of their citizenship status or time in the United States. In the chorus, they rap that this is for all their people (“esto es para toda la gente”). Verse 1 is dedicated to compas (Mexican nationals/recently arrived Mexicans). They describe the compa as someone with snakeskin boots, a cowboy hat, silver belt buckle, and leather vest. Kinto Sol mentions important and popular Mexican musicians, including Vicente Fernandez, Pedro Infante, Banda el Recodo, and Chalino Sanchez. They say that compas like both norteño and banda music. Verse 2 is dedicated to cholos and cholas. They describe cholos as bald-headed (pelones) with tattoos on their backs. Chol@s listen to oldies as well as Mexican singer Ramón Ayala. They dress in white T-shirts while they drive lowrider cars. Cholos also write graffiti. While Kinto Sol describes some of the cultural differences between chol@s and compas in the first two verses,

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the third stresses that raza es raza—that whether you listen to banda or oldies or drive trucks or lowriders, you are of the same nation. They call for unity among the different types of Mexican@s. They rap in verse 3: Raza es raza de aquí nada pasa.

[The people are people from here nothing happens.

Todos venimos de la misma casa.

We all come from the same house.

La misma sangre, el mismo color,

The same blood, the same color,

La misma calor, el mismo sabor.

The same heat, the same flavor.

Cholos y compas somos paisanos.

Cholos and compas we are compatriots.

La misma patria, somos hermanos.

The same fatherland, we are brothers.

Juntos controlamos

together we can control things

a cualquiera ganamos . . .

we can beat anyone . . .

Juntamos la feria y a la patria

Let’s join the money and return to the fatherland.]

Regresamos

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HECHO EN MEXICO: THE REVIVAL OF MEXICAN IDENTITY AND VALUES

Regardless of one’s citizenship status as a person of Mexican ancestry in the United States, you were hecho en Mexico (made in Mexico). Your culture, worldview, aesthetic choices, language, and identity were constructed, in part, by Mexico. This “made in Mexico” label found on commodities produced there and exported to the U.S. symbolizes the relationship that Mexican people have with the United States. Mexicans are here but are not exactly of the United States. This predicament is among the most important issues facing people of Mexican descent in the U.S. Many who experience this predicament through prejudice, discrimination, and assaults on their being respond by exalting their culture and their country. Kinto Sol expresses their pride in all things Mexican in numerous songs. Songs such as “Hecho en Mexico” and “Somos Mexicanos” exemplify their orgullo Mexicano. El día que nací se murió la estrella

[The day I was born the star died.

Llegué a este mundo a la tierra más bella I arrived in this world at the most beautiful land. Es la casa de la luna como mi patria

My fatherland is the house of the moon.

En este mundo solo hay una.

In this world there is only one.

Es la tierra del sol.

It is the land of the sun.

Mi gente tiene estilo

My people have style

y está llena de sabor.

And are full of flavor.]

Kinto Sol opens the song “Hecho en Mexico” with the chorus, in which they repeatedly affirm that they were hecho en Mexico. The rapper then claims to be born in the

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most beautiful land imaginable—an incomparable land. Not only does the rapper use simile to make claims to the wonder and beauty of Mexico, he raps these lines establishing the theme of Mexico as a superior land. Mexicans are also a great people with style and flavor (a hip-hop term suggesting a high degree of coolness). In fact, there is so much that is great about their patria, they don’t know where to begin to speak about it, nor could they ever finish listing the great things that come out of Mexico. They rap: No encuentro por donde comenzar.

[I can’t find a place to begin.

Tantas cosas que tenemos nunca voy a terminar. We have so many things I’ll never finish.]

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

They then go on to list a number of iconic Mexican foodstuffs, including “las tortillas recién hechas en comal” (freshly made tortillas), pulque, tequila, tamales, and nopales. In this song, they don’t understate their pride, claiming that they are pound for pound the best as they carry the Mexican colors wherever they go and tattoo “Mexico” on their bellies. Libra por libra somos los mejores.

[Pound for pound we are the best.

Kilo por kilo somos los campeones. . . .

Kilo for kilo we are the champions. . . .

En todos los lugares yo levanto mi bandera. . . .

Everywhere I go, I raise my flag. . . .

El nombre de Mexico tatuado en mi panza.

Mexico tattooed on my belly.]

Kinto Sol’s orgullo Mexicano challenges the negative representation of Mexico, Mexicans, and Mexicanness in the dominant U.S. media. Many in the United States view Mexicans as ineffectual, crime-ridden, poor, backward, ignorant, and ugly. Mexicans are a problem population that must be dealt with using legislation, border fences, police enforcement, and attacks on Mexican language use. Throughout their body of work, Kinto Sol affirms Mexican identity, educates Mexican@s about their history and culture, and explains to them why they should be proud of who they are. In the song “Somos Mexicanos,” from their latest compact disc, they describe a number of Mexicans that they believe people of Mexican descent should take pride in and model themselves after. They rap: Aquí han nacido los mejores peleadores.

[Here the best warriors have been born.

Es José Alfredo si hablas de compositores. It’s José Alfredo if you speak of composers. Virgen de Guadalupe la más bella de las flores.

Virgin of Guadalupe, the most beautiful flower

Jorge Negrete pa’ conquistar corazones.

Jorge Negrete, conqueror of hearts.

Pa’ una cascarita, tenemos jugadores

For games, we have players.

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Los mejores mariachis pa’ que llores. . . .

The best mariachis to make you cry. . . .

Larga es la lista, mejor comencemos.

Long is the list, we better begin.

Pintores, boxeadores, escritores,

Painters, boxers, writers, comedians. . . .

comediantes. . . . Boxeadores, los campeones

Boxers, the champions

Los pintores, los mejores

Painters, the best

Los mariachis, pa’ que llores

Mariachis, to make you cry

Jugadores, goleadores.

Players, goal scorers.]

Kinto Sol works to define Mexicans and Mexicanidad and reclaim that definition from Anglo-dominated U.S. culture. They develop this definition in their music, iconography, and writings. The liner notes for their 2006 compact disc, Hijos del Maíz, includes a discussion of many of the accomplishments of native Mexicans and Mexican culture over thousands of years. They write: Nuestras raizes [sic] han existido en este continente por miles de anos. Han contribuido e influenciado al mundo entero. A pesar de ser un pueblo tan avanzado en ciencias, matematicas, medicina, y espiritualidad, se nos a juzgado de primitivos, atrazados y hasta tontos. Ya fue suficiente, este es un muy pequeno resumen de lo que el llamado “indio” y su madre tierra la han obsequiado al mundo. [For thousands of years our roots have existed on this continent. They have contributed Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

and influenced the entire world. Even as we are a very advanced people in science, mathematics, medicine, and spirituality, we have been judged as primitive, backward, and even stupid. That is enough. This is a very small resume of the so-called Indian and his/her motherland that has been offered to the world.]

They then describe in short paragraphs how Mexican civilization has accomplished things such as discovering the concept of zero; equality; foodstuffs including chocolate, vanilla, and tomatoes; a precise calendar; spirituality; libraries; medicine; body purification through volcanic steam baths; and the number thirteen. Kinto Sol claims that ancient Mexicans have given many gifts to the rest of the world, and that many of the maladies now associated with Mexican culture have come from European colonization and cultural imperialism. Kinto Sol claims that the machismo for which Mexican men are famously known came from Spanish culture. They write: Los invasores y varios pueblos alrededor del mundo no reconocian a lo mas importante de nuestra existencia. La Mujer! Hasta la fecha, la mayoría de paises nunca han tenido una mujer como presidente. A lo largo de toda la historia la mujer ha sido denigrada. . . .

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El machismo viene del oriente, aquí no es así, ometeolt, la energía conocida como Dios esta compuesta por dos. Ome = 2, teotl = energía. La mujer y el hombre. [The invaders and many peoples around the world do not recognize the most important thing of our existence: the Woman! Until today, the majority of countries have not had a woman president. For most of history the woman has been denigrated. . . . Machismo comes from the east, here it is not like this, ometeotl, the energy known as god is

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

composed of two. Ome = 2, teotl = energy. The woman and the man.]

Kinto Sol, in hip-hop style, turns the tables on (“flips the script” as is often said in Hip Hop Nation Language) the dominant narrative that claims that Mexican men are oppressive and violent toward their women, and that the Mexican man as the epitome of the macho is a sexist and abuser of women. Kinto Sol argues that it is the European man who is the real sexist, and that European culture includes an ideology of patriarchy and misogyny. Using an interpretation of Mesoamerican spiritual views, they hold that their Mexican ancestors believed in male and female equality. Unlike the Christian god, who is male, and the biblical teachings that exalt men at the expense of women, Mesoamericans believed in Ometeotl, who is both male and female. Kinto Sol’s claims about the patriarchal nature of European religious thought with the advent of Christianity, and the matriarchal and more egalitarian religious views of ancient Americans, have been argued by numerous scholars (Castillo 1994; Marcos 2008). Kinto Sol argues that returning to ancestral ways will help solve some of the world’s most pressing problems. Along with sexism and authoritarianism, Mesoamerican thought and practice can help solve ecological problems and unite humanity. Kinto Sol explains their interpretation of the spiritual system of preColumbian Mexicans: Espiritualidad: va más alla de la religion. Los elementos que fueron venerados por nuestros ancestors, el fuego, el agua, el viento, y la tierra se respetan porque sin ellos el ser humano dejaria de vivir. Saber que estos elementos son nuestra vida y respetar es cosa de savios. Estos elementos nos conectan. Todo ser human coexiste con estos obsequios. Observarlos, conocerlos, y preservarlos nos enseña a conocer la vida. “mitakuye oyasin” (en lengua Lakota) todos estamos conectados. Todos estamos relacionados. [Spirituality: more than religion. The elements that were venerated by our ancestors, fire, water, wind, and earth, were respected because without them human beings could not live. Knowing that these elements are our life and respecting them is a characteristic of wise people. These elements connect us. All human beings coexist because of these

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offerings. Observing them, knowing them, and preserving them teaches us to know life.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

“Mitakuye oyasin” (in the language of the Lakota), all of us are connected. All are related.]

They claim that Mexican ancestors venerated and respected nature. They held the view that human beings owe their existence to nature. In this way all of us are connected. All humans require water and food that come from nature. However, most take this for granted and do not realize that the contemporary petroleum-based lifestyle is destroying the very things humans need to survive. Kinto Sol, like the Mexica rappers discussed earlier, believes that Mexican ancestors had a superior nature-society relationship. They were caretakers of the land. This ethos can be found in their spirituality. Kinto Sol mentions the Lakota concept mitakuye oyasin (all my relations). This saying, often used as a greeting or invocation to a prayer, has found resonance with many native peoples throughout the Americas. Today, non-Lakota indigenous people can be heard greeting each other, opening powwows, or praying in sweat lodges using mitakuye oyasin. The concept illustrates the connection that all forms of life have to one another. Kinto Sol’s claims to an agropastoral tradition and land-based spirituality of Mesoamericans and their Mexican descendants is corroborated by historical research. Peña (2005) begins his environmental history of mega-Mexico (present-day Mexico and the U.S. Southwest) with the xinampas (or chinampas), the floating gardens of the Aztecs. He writes that the major indigenous groups of mega-Mexico developed an extraordinarily complex “traditional ecological knowledge” (TEK). For example, the well-known “alimentary trinity” of beans, squash, and corn (las tres madres) was domesticated by indigenous Mesoamericans over thousands of years. This major innovation was not merely a horticultural science discovery that showed a keen insight into the needs of the soil and the seeds of each of the three plants and their complementary nature, but also an important contribution to health science. This ancient knowledge has been passed down over many generations, and the huertos familiares (kitchen gardens) of many contemporary Chican@s/Mexican@s contain beans, corn, and squash. Many a dinner contains what my grandmother called “corn and calabacitas” with beans—a Spanglish rendering not uncommon in New Mexico and Colorado. The members of Kinto Sol present a perspective on Mexican history that includes a belief that their ancestors had developed a sophisticated understanding of their environment and their place within it. Kinto Sol refers to (though does not detail) Mesoamerican traditions that environmental scientists refer to as an ethnobotany, cultural agroforestry, biomimicry, hydrology, raised-bed cultivation, and permaculture—all currently in vogue in organic and sustainable agricultural practices. Kinto Sol promotes a view of the horticultural and ecological legacy of

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Mexican@/Chican@ ancestors that includes an ethos that today some might call biocentrism. Kinto Sol claims to value what we might call “interspecies equity” and an interconnectedness of species.2 Kinto Sol closes their liner notes with the following: Esta sabiduria comun entre nuestros pueblos nos a vuelto a iluminar, no la usamos para denigrar a otras culturas, sino para elevar la conciencia y espiritu de nuestro pueblo que a sido marginado y humillado. . . . somos gente noble. Somos los hijos del maíz! [This wisdom, common among our peoples, is used to illuminate. We don’t use it to denigrate other cultures, but rather to elevate the conscience and spirit of our people who have been marginalized and humiliated. . . . We are a noble people. We are children

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

of the corn!]

Kinto Sol celebrates this wisdom and laments the loss of it among more recent generations of Mexican@s/Chican@s. For this reason they attempt to educate young Mexican@/Chican@s through their songs and liner notes. Since 1519, when the Spaniards brought the second major ecological revolution to Mega-Mexico (the first was that of “the aboriginal mode of production”), to the present-day industrial, capitalist mode of production, or fourth ecological revolution, the traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) of Mexican and all indigenous peoples has been under assault. Spanish colonialism, the U.S. conquest of Northern Mexico, and the urbanization and proletarianization of the Mexican population in the United States changed the nature of agricultural/horticultural labor and the land-based spirituality and ethos of Mexicans. Mexican TEK has been replaced by capitalist values and a consumer ethic (Peña 2005). Kinto Sol and many other Chican@ emcees recognize this assault on their culture and attempt to promote what they believe to be TEK and other ancestral wisdom in their music.

HASTA EL “ULTIMO SUSPIRO”

Kinto Sol discusses the greatness of Mexican people as a way to help renew dignity and redefine Mexicanidad in the face of denigrating stereotypes and decades of oppression. Their words are also songs of resistance. While the above-mentioned songs concern pride in Mexicanidad, others speak of resistance to domination. Like the Mexica rappers in the previous chapter and the street-hoppers of the next, Kinto Sol takes an oppositional stance toward the sources of power in our country. In songs such as “Ultimo Suspiro,” “Los Que Luchamos,” “F.U.S.I.L.,” “La Antorcha,” and many others, Kinto Sol pledges to resist oppression and better the lives of their raza and

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others. They call for a unified front of Mexican people to change the condition of their lives and the nature of power. Their song “Ultimo Suspiro” (2010) opens with the following lines: En nuestro diccionário la palabra derrota

[The word failure is erased from

está tachada porque estaremos en la lucha

our dictionary because we will fight

hasta el último suspiro, compadre.

until our last breath, compadre.]

The members of Kinto Sol believe in themselves and their raza. They work hard, learn, and educate so that they can become successful in their ultimate goal of changing the world for people of Mexican descent. Each member of Kinto Sol then dedicates a verse to pledging support for struggle against power. Skribe, one of Kinto Sol’s emcees, claims that one must live without fear in the struggle for equality. He raps: La vida una batalla, mas mi alma es

[Life [is] a battle, my soul is of a warrior.

de un guerrero.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Mueres sin honor, si vives con temor.

You die without honor, if you live in fear.]

With revolutionary and hip-hop bravado, Skribe describes how he possesses a warrior soul. Much like the Chicano and American Indian Movement revolutionaries of previous generations, Skribe uses the iconic image of the warrior who fights without fear to defend his people’s honor. The worst thing from the perspective of the revolutionary is to be a man without honor. In many cases, it is worse to live without honor than die in the struggle. Many songs by Kinto Sol and other Chicano/ Mexicano emcees reference the famous phrase attributed to Emiliano Zapata during the Mexican Revolution: “Es mejor morir de pie que vivir arrodillado” [It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees]. Kinto Sol promotes a political philosophy, and attempts to raise youth consciousness through their fearless approach to musicianship and songwriting. They, like many members of the Hip Hop Nation (HHN), question authority and the social order that continues to oppress people of color and the working classes. They are rebels who carve their own path but do it in conjunction with and for their people, their raza. The song “Los que Luchamos” (2006) exemplifies this orientation. Payback’s musical production places the listener within the Mexican diaspora at the same time that the audience member is aware that this music comes from the rebel heart and soul of hip-hop. The song opens with a character discussing a map of the Southwest. He says: “Allí está en el mapa. Todo esto. Todo el Colorado, Nuevo Mexico, Arizona, todo Tejas. Está grande, verdad? Colorado. No hace mucho tiempo.” Kinto Sol argues in this song that all of the U.S. Southwest was taken from Mexico

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Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

and is rightly the property of Mexico. As the character is describing la tierra robada, the stolen land, Payback quietly adds sorrowful mariachi horns playing a simple melody that serves as a theme throughout the song. As soon as the monologue ends, Payback introduces the rhythm section that locates the song within the hip-hop world; a high hat plays a steady beat of quarter notes throughout the song, while a snare drum contributes the “boom-boom” and a handclap adds the “bap.” The effect is high-energy and insistent. The horns continue the sorrowful melody throughout, giving the listener a slight sense of lament at the loss of land. Payback completes his wall of sound with a repeated piano chord figure and strategically placed trumpet blasts to add effect to the emcees’ lyrics. The last forty seconds of the song include record-scratching by Payback. The music lays the backdrop for the rap/poetry of Skribe and Chivo, who attempt to encourage their friends and compatriots to organize and unify to recover their lost lands and culture. The chorus that begins the song serves as Kinto Sol’s rallying cry. They ask: Dónde están mis compas los que luchamos?

Where are my friends who struggle?

Dónde están mis paísas, nuestros hermanos?

Where are my countrymen, our brothers?

Todos mis carnales, nuestros paisanos

All of my close friends, our countrymen

a los malinchistas no los contamos.

we don’t count the malinchistas.

Dónde están mis compas los que luchamos?

Where are my friends who struggle?

Dónde están mis paísas, nuestros hermanos?

Where our my countrymen, our brothers?

Todos mis carnales, nuestros paisanos,

All of my close friends, my countrymen,

todo que es nuestro nos reclamamos.

All that is ours we will reclaim.

In Kinto Sol’s estimation, a compa, paísa, or carnal is someone who struggles. In other words, to be a Mexican man in the twenty-first century you must fight for your country and your raza. Those who don’t are traitors, malinchistas. Traitors acquiesce. They do not attempt to reclaim la tierra robada. Thus, Kinto Sol does not count them among their paísas and carnales (terms like “brother” or “dude” used since the Chicano Movement). Importantly, they feminize men who don’t struggle, calling them malinchistas. This derogatory term refers to the supposed betrayal of Doña Marina (La Malinche). According to the heteronormative patriarchal version of Mexican history, La Malinche betrayed the indigenous people of Mexico by serving as Cortés’s translator and concubine. In the macho male imaginary, those who do not struggle against the oppressor and for la raza are akin to the iconic female betrayer of the nation.3 In the verses to the songs, Chivo and Skribe expand upon their call to their carnales. In the first verse they rap:

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Con orgullo en la piel sigo avanzando,

[With pride in my skin I continue to advance

peleando, marchando.

fighting, marching.

Mientras siga vivo ó está respirando

While I live or breathe

en la tierra extranjera

in the foreign land

un saludo a mi bandera

a salute to my flag.

Espero todos lo hagan de la misma

I hope that all do the same.

manera. Mira alrededor, analiza la vida.

Look around, analyze life.

Soy guerrero que muere por la tierra

I’m a warrior that dies for the promised

prometida. No hay otra salida que tomar el control

land There is no other way but to take control.]

In the following verse, after claiming to tell the truth about our society, they call on their carnales to fight for what is theirs. They rap: Vamos a ser franco diciendo la verdad.

[We’re going to be frank telling you the truth.

Vamos a decirte como es la sociedad . . .

We’re going to tell you about this society . . .

Toma la palabra y reclama lo que es tuyo.

Take this word and reclaim that which is

Estarás en línea si tienes orgullo.

Get in line, if you have pride.]

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

yours.

In this verse they speak of the misery in which many of them live, which has been caused by the taking of Mexican land, the subsequent U.S. dominance of Mexico, and racism. They end the verse claiming that they will not sell themselves and their people; they won’t acquiesce in the continued suffering of their people. They rap: “Nunca me venderé. No soy gente barata. [I will never sell-out. I’m not cheap.]” The third verse is more specific. Kinto Sol examines the violence of the border. The verse opens with these lines: “Muchas almas se han perdido cruzando el alambre con lágrimas de hambre, sudor y sangre. [Many souls have been lost crossing the wire with tears of hunger, sweat, and blood.]” They refer here to the thousands of Mexican migrants who have lost their lives crossing the international border between Mexico and the United States. Given their belief that the borderlands are stolen lands, they see the border as illegitimate. U.S. immigration policy, the militarization of the border, and the erecting of fences and walls have created a situation in which the journey to the United States ends in death for many migrants. As a result, Kinto Sol argues at the end of this verse that the border wall should be torn down (“Esa muralla tiene que caer”).

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The song ends with Kinto Sol arguing that a successful resistance requires organization. They say that all must be pushing power in the same direction. The final short verse reads: Ya somos bastantes, compa

[There are now enough of us, compa,

pero de nada sirve si todos

but nothing will work if we are

empujamos en diferentes direcciónes.

pushing in different directions.

Es una organización sin dirección

This is an organization without direction

y no hay peor opresión que la ignorancia. and there is no worse oppression than ignorance.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

La mejor revolución es el conocimiento.

The best revolution is knowledge.

Así de que ya sabes, compa,

Now you know, compa,

si no tenemos la misma dirección

that if we are not going in the same direction,

no vamos a llegar a ningún lado.

we will not arrive anywhere.]

Ultimately, Kinto Sol’s mission is more than to make great music and make a living doing so. They want to valorize themselves and their people. They want to educate their audience about the greatness of Mexican civilization in order to combat stereotypes and internalized racism and instill a sense of pride in compas and cholos alike. Many of their songs argue against individualism and for developing community. They believe that they are oppressed because they are Mexican. Thus, the solution to overcoming their oppression is to organize people of Mexican descent to struggle against racism and colonialism. A central organizing principle for Kinto Sol, like many Mexican@/Chican@ social-justice advocates, is the family.

LA SANGRE NUNCA MUERE

While Kinto Sol’s Mexicanidad is in many ways new, as it is located in the urban Midwest at the beginning of the new millennium, in other ways it is very old, as it foregrounds the iconography of Mexican nationalism. Primary among these symbols is la familia. Throughout their body of work, they reference family as a central organizing principle of their lives and their community’s struggle for self-determination. Nowhere is this more evident than on La Sangre Nunca Muere. The liner notes to the compact disc include three photos of Kinto Sol surrounded by family members. In the photos, three generations of the García family look proudly into the camera, asserting their familial solidarity. The captions under the photos state in Spanish that blood teaches (“a la sangre se le ensena”), blood protects (“la sangre se protege”), and blood continues (“sangre continua”). Song titles reflecting the family theme include “La Sangre Nunca Muere” (Blood Never Dies), “Mi Pasado” (My Past), and “Esa es Familia” (That’s Family). Album artwork further emphasizes the family theme.

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The inside back cover of the disc includes a photo of a tombstone in the shape of a cross, with a rose growing in front of it, partially obscuring the names engraved on the stone. The camera angle and lighting add a solemn tone to the photo. In the photo, the graphic designers from Explicit Ink Designs have printed the following lyrics from the song “La Sangre Nunca Muere”: “La sangre de mi padre es la misma de mi abuelo. La sangre de mi hijo es la misma que yo tengo” (My father’s blood is the same as my grandfather’s. My son’s blood is the same as I have). These words, sung beautifully by guest artist Pony Boy, of the Chicago-based (now living in Las Vegas, Nevada) group Los Marijuanos, are the essence of Kinto Sol’s belief that while individuals die, the family continues through the “blood” passed from grandfather to father to son. Underscoring their theme, the song begins with the slow, steady sound of a heart monitor, and ends with the long continuous beep that signals death. The music then begins with Skribe chanting “la sangre nunca muere” and Pony Boy singing “nunca muere.” The song powerfully asserts their blood family ties and their belief that family is the most important thing in life. They repeat advice that their father gave them. They rap: Las palabras expresaron algo muy profundo.

[His words expressed something very profound.

La feria se gasta y la fama se termina.

One spends money and fame ends.

Más lo que haces en la vida a ninguno

Most important in this life and don’t forget

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

se olvida Cuida su semilla hasta el día que partida.

Care for your children until the day you

La sangre nunca muere en las venas

Blood never dies. In your veins you have

depart. esos tiene.

them.]

Throughout the song, Kinto Sol’s lyrics express the importance of maintaining family and representing them with pride and honor. For them, their last name encapsulates all that they stand for. They must live an honorable life worthy of the last name García. In the final verse they rap: Cuando me vaya de esta tierra mi marca estará hecho

[When I leave this Earth my mark will be made

La herencia sera el Tesoro de mi apellido;

My inheritance will be the treasure of my

un nombre de fuerza y honor, respeto

a name of power and honor, respect and

Last name; y valor.

value.

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I will also leave another piece of paper written

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en el libro de tragedía que llamamos vida.

In the book of tragedy that we call life.]

The legacy that they will leave on Earth once they die will be their children to whom they will pass on their name. Importantly, they will leave a written (and rapped) account of life. Not surprisingly, given that the members of Kinto Sol live and work in a patrilineal society, they emphasize male lineage and do not mention female family members explicitly. They use the masculine when discussing their family members, including padres (fathers and mothers?), tíos (uncles and aunts?), abuelos (grandfathers and grandmothers?), and hijos (sons and daughters?). In the Spanish language, the masculine form of a noun is used when a group includes both females and males. However, we shouldn’t simply attribute Kinto Sol’s use of the masculine form to syntax. Throughout the song they assert the theme that blood never dies by referring to male family members. Not once in the song do they say that they have the same blood as their mother, sisters, or daughters. Life lessons that they follow come from their father. Female family members seem to be secondary in their accounts of the importance of family. This privileging of the males in the family illustrates the feminist critique regarding the family in Chican@/Mexican@ cultural politics. In the Mexican/Chicano imaginary, the family is a patriarchal institution defined by male presence. Many Chicanos, including Chicano emcees, pay lip service to the important role of women in the family as mothers and wives, while seeing the key figure in the family as male. The active subject and linchpin of the family is male. Hip-hop groups sometimes pay tribute to women as the foundation of the home, but focus on men in the vast majority of their lyrics concerning family. As Rodriguez (2009) points out, the exalting of family as the key to survival and community resilience makes a certain amount of sense given the hostile public world inhabited by colonial subjects. The home can often be a haven in a world in which all outside institutions (schools, police, work, government, media) denigrate and violently suppress Chican@s/Mexican@s. In a world in which Chicano/Mexicano manhood is constantly under attack, they can restore their masculinity through claiming their place at the head of the household, and have their wounds healed by family members, most often female family members. This point is made by Kinto Sol in their song “Esa Es Familia” (That Is Family). They rap: Cuando estoy en la tormenta

[When I’m in the storm (or tormented)

Y no puedo caminar

and I can’t walk,

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Cuando me hace falta el aire

when I don’t have air

Y no puedo respirar

and can’t breathe

Cuando mi alma está gritando

when my soul is shouting

Quién me venga ayudar?

Who comes to my aid?

Sin duda, mi familia

Without doubt, my family

Me viene a levantar.

Comes to pick me up.]

These lyrics express the importance of family to individual, and perhaps community resilience in a racist, xenophobic society. This perspective on the family holds out hope for the Mexican family as a potentially progressive force in the struggle for a better world. However, the question remains: Can the family be completely reclaimed from a heteronormative patriarchal paradigm to be more inclusive of all members of the Chican@/Mexican@ nation? How does the ChHHN rhetoric like that found in Kinto Sol’s lyrics contribute or take away from more egalitarian beliefs and practices among Mexican@s/Chican@s?

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Mexiclanos Unidos

To express themselves and represent, Mexiclan (from San Pedro, California) mixes relentless bass guitar–driven polyrythmic funk music with Spanish, Spanglish, and hip-hop English. They claim a Mexican masculinity, rapping that they are “Three Mexicans that you don’t want to mess [with]” or “test.” In the song “Real Spitt,” they display Mexican male and hip-hop bravado. In this and most of the songs on the CD, they portray themselves as tough, virile, heterosexual Mexican men in the tradition of mariachi heroes in Pedro Infante and Vicente Fernandez movies, social bandit figures like Gregorio Cortez “with his pistol in his hand,” and progressive Mexican politicians and activists. Their music portrays a complex Mexicanidad informed by U.S. pop, Chicano street youth, and black culture. Mexiclan frames their CD Mexiclanos Unidos as a Mexican-community radio program on Radio San Pedro. They are aware of the role that radio has played in Mexican and Mexican American communities over the years. Radio has been used to rally the people to protest, has informed them about community events, and has served to develop community. Ed Morales (2006), writing in the aftermath of the largest protest marches in United States history, writes about how Mexican radio deejays in major cities such as Chicago were integral to the success of the massive protests. He explains that “The role of the radio personality as advocate for immigrants is nothing new. According to USC journalism professor Felix Gutiérrez, in the 1920s and ’30s Pedro González, once Pancho Villa’s telegraph operator, pioneered Spanish-language

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radio in Los Angeles, protesting the deportation of half a million Mexicans, many of them U.S. citizens mistaken for illegals.” In this tradition, Mexiclan announces that el Partido Mexiclano is running a candidate for president. The compact disc opens with “Conferencia.” The candidate says to the crowd: Queridos hermanos, Mexiclanos,

[Dear Mexiclan brothers,

hoy ha llegado el día esperado

the day that you have waited for has arrived.

El día de decisión . . . es necesario

The day of decision . . . A change is necessary.

un cambio. Vote por Mexiclan y las cosas

Vote for Mexiclan and things will change.]

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cambiarán.

He implores his beloved brothers to vote for the Mexiclan candidate because he will bring the change that they have been awaiting. Over a musical backdrop that acts as a theme throughout the CD, the candidate rallies the crowd by promising to clean up corruption, thereby paving the way for a better life. The signature funky bass line, blaring mariachi trumpets, and “boom-boom bap” of the bass drum and cymbals set the musical stage for the political change promised in a polycultural and transnational Mexican world in San Pedro, California. Mexiclan is resistant and reminds the listener of the importance of radio in Mexican and Mexican-immigrant politics. Aware of the dangers of political resistance, we hear gunshots and squealing car tires in “Assassination.” Radio San Pedro broadcasts a special bulletin (boletín especial) informing the citizens of the assassination of the Mexiclan candidate. Over a musical lament of funeral horns, heavy kettle drums, and an insistent cymbal, the DJ begs for peace (paz en el barrio). Following the assassination, Mexiclan recommits to its vision of fun and a good life through resistance. In “Vivir o Morir” they sing a prayer for a better world: Yo quiero vivir en un mundo mejor

[I want to live in a better world

donde no hay llorar

where there is no crying

pero ese mundo no es de verdad.

but this world is not real.

Quiero sonreír y vivir feliz.

I want to smile and live happily

No quiero pensar en la calle

not think about the street

donde yo voy a morir.

where I’ll die.]

The song exemplifies the genre of Mexican orature that meditates on existential questions of life, suffering, and death. This “Mexican blues” tradition illustrates an indigenous orientation toward the cycle of life. “Vivir o Morir” represents the tradition of el Día de los Muertos, in which Mexican communion with ancestors

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suggests an understanding of life in which the death of the human body is not the end, but rather a new period in the cycle. The questioning of life and death in the Mexican lament takes on new meaning in a colonial context in which Mexicans and Chicanos are racialized Others in the United States. As a result of their racialized status, Mexiclan feels embattled. Following the reform politics of the Mexiclan candidate, songs such as “Pa’ Mi Gente,” “The Plot,” and “Al Ataque” reflect Mexican male resistance. Over the “boom-boom bap” rhythmic foundation and Southwestern Spanish guitar sounds, los Mexiclanos offer a rallying cry: “No hay nada que nos pare / Mexiclanos al ataque, vamos!” [There is nothing that can stop us! Attack, Mexiclanos! Let’s Go!] In another rallying cry, “The Plot,” Mexiclanos chant repeatedly: “Time to go to war now / Let me see your warface . . . / Real warriors fight for real reasons. . . . to survive.” The aggressive syncopated bass, crashing sounds, and eerie chords emphasize the war chant. Los Mexiclanos see themselves as working-class Mexican men in conflict with numerous oppressive forces. In “Al Ataque,” they continue the theme of Mexican male resistance. The song begins with a syncopated funk tuba and conga rhythm. Within a few bars, a military snare-drum figure takes over, and an accordion provides a rolling melody accented with mariachi trumpet blasts. Mexiclanos use the notion of unity to argue for the right to fun and joy. They sing: “Hay que estar unidos. / Mexiclanos vamos a gozar a fiesta y parranda.” In resistance to Chican@/Mexican@ immiseration under U.S. capitalism, Mexiclanos rally for a society based on feelings of joy. Mirroring anarchist, activist, and theorist Emma Goldman’s stance that “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution,” Mexiclan argues, like many oppressed peoples, that any politics of equality and freedom must include dignity and joy. “Lo Verdadero” has an accordion and tuba throughout to create a banda feel. They use the syncopated “boom-boom bap” rhythm to set the background for another Chican@/Mexican@ working-class blues. The protagonist in this song prides himself as a hustler (someone who works hard, often at illicit occupations, to overcome their poverty). They rap: “If the water dry, you know / I’m not gonna cry. / I’mma do the rain dance and make the water rise. / If the water dry, you know / I’mma do the hustle with tears dropping down these eyes.” They describe a Mexicano/Chicano who struggles against his working-class, racialized status as a social bandit figure—someone to be understood and supported, not to be labeled a criminal. Los Mexiclanos describe the conditions that a Chicano hustler or callejero is in that cause him to work in underground and illicit economies. They remind us that in our society, “money makes the world go round.” They describe the psychological consequences of poverty, rapping that “being broke [will] / make an emcee wanna kill.” They use the imagery of rain and tears throughout the song to articulate the pain of poverty and the decisions that

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result from it. They explain that not having money keeps them hustling or acting like a callejero: “Lo verdadero / esta pasando [que] / no hay dinero / por eso sigo de callejero.” Mexiclan too has a troublesome relation to women in their music. In the party song “Lion’s Den Fiesta,” they boast about the way they rock a fiesta. At a Lion’s Den fiesta, “Everywhere [they] look around / dancing to the sound / all my familia is singing while we’re sippin’ on Bacardi.” They claim that they throw a great party, “blowing bomb weed” (smoking good marijuana) and having sex with beautiful women. They speak of the women at the party as sex objects in the following excerpts: “I’m feelin’ on they chesta / M.O.S. with a fine ass sista,” “mueve la cadera, mami, mueve la cadera / bounce up and down,” and “shake yo booty / move it right.” While Mexiclan mostly stays away from the most exploitive and misogynist imagery, they remain in the patriarchal paradigm that sees women as sexual Others and useful for their sexuality and little else. Mexiclan’s heteronormative Mexican masculinity follows the formula of men as warrior-heroes resisting racism and capitalism, and social bandits who fight the power for a life of dignity and joy. Their macho Mexicanidad sees women as mere sex objects. This attitude compromises their freedom dreams.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Akwid’s Hip-Hop Banda and Immigrant Sensibility

Brothers Sergio and Francisco Gomez immigrated from Michoacan, Mexico, to Los Angeles when they were young. Banda, norteño, and other regional Mexican musics were among their early musical influences. They began experimenting by mixing hip-hop beats with banda and norteño instrumentation, melodies, and beats from their earliest days as the DJ crew Juvenile Style. By the time they had released two independent compact discs and made their major label debut with the disc Proyecto Akwid (2003) from Univision Records, they had begun to perfect banda rap. Akwid’s music is unique. While they utilize the boom-boom bap of hip-hop and its obsession with extremely low bass notes and drums, the rhythmic foundation of their music stems from regional Mexican music, especially norteño and banda. Their use of live horns, electronic horn sounds, accordions, and samples from regional Mexican musics establishes their music as part of the Mexican diasporic tradition. Mexican people have developed a diverse musical culture as a result of their ethnic diversity and history of encounters and exchanges between peoples. The uses of European instruments and song forms such as orquesta and conjunto musics, and the aforementioned African influence on mariachi and music of the Mexican Caribbean coast, illustrate two broad categories of cultural exchange emblematic of Mexican music. Akwid’s hip-hop banda incorporates elements of previous Mexican

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musics and current music, namely hip-hop. Additionally, the content of Akwid’s lyrics reveals an enormous creativity in examining the life of young urban Mexican immigrants. Song themes include teen and young-adult partying, sex, street life, their relationship as immigrants to state institutions including schools and the criminal justice system, spirituality, their barrios and city, and their Mexicanidad.

IMMIGRANTS AND U.S. INSTITUTIONS: “BIENVENIDOS A E.S.L.”

announcer: Welcome to Akwid’s ESL course, English as a Second Language. [In Anglo American accent of someone unfamiliar with Spanish] Bienvenidos al curso de ESL de Akwid, Inglés como Segundo Idioma. esl teacher: Good morning. Once again, class, welcome to our first day of ESL class, English as a Second Language. [Loudly] Hello! Ladies and gentlemen! Excuse me! Excuse me! Excuse me, sir! Sir, excuse me! [clapping] Hey! Hey! [students imitating teacher’s clapping] Excuse me! No, don’t do what I’m doing! Miss! Miss, excuse me! Thank you. [In Anglo accent] Con permiso, señorita! [stuttering, not confident in his Spanish] My name . . . mi nombre es Arturo . . . [simultaneously a student repeats] Su nombre es Arturo . . . teacher: Ray student: Ray. teacher: OK, sir, what is your purpose here in this class? Can you tell me what your purpose is? Why are you here in my class? student: Nosotros venimos por necesidad a este país. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

teacher: I need everybody to please listen to me for one second. Sir! Excuse me! Thank you! student: [inaudible] teacher: What is that supposed to mean? Is that some sort of barrio talk from you guys? Is that some ranchero . . . is that some gang affiliated, ah, slang that I don’t know? student: [in heavy northern Mexican accent] You can take me from the hood but you cannot . . . because I am, I am be where I come from. announcer: Lesson number one. [Anglo-accented Spanish] Se pueden sacarme del barrio pero no se pueden sacar el barrio de mí. Repeat after me. You can take me out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of me.

Akwid begins their 2006 release, E.S.L., with this skit that sets the theme for the entire concept album. Throughout E.S.L. the brothers Gomez describe and analyze young Mexican immigrant lives, especially as they relate to experiences in state institutions such as education and criminal justice. The misunderstanding between the ESL teacher and Mexican students is a metonym for the cultural misunderstandings and conflicts between people of Mexican descent and dominant institutions, the dominant U.S. culture, and white Americans. The students’ inattention and defiance

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toward the teacher is illustrated in the chatter that continues throughout the track, making the teacher have to speak loudly, and unsuccessfully attempt over and over again to get their attention. The final lines of the skit present a synopsis of Akwid’s attitude regarding the public-school education they receive. While the education system is a program of Americanization whereby values, language, customs, and histories are taught in accord with U.S. ideals, schools deny the culture, values, experiences, histories, and identities of Mexican-origin students. In essence, the school system attempts to “take the hood out of,” or assimilate, Mexican students. Akwid resists this attack on their culture and language and defiantly says, “You can’t take the hood out of me / no se pueden sacar el barrio de mí.” In other words, dominant institutions cannot take their Mexican identity and culture from them. While the conflict in this skit works as metonym for the multiple struggles of recent immigrants, it also serves to address the concrete struggle of Mexican youth in ESL courses. Mexican@ students tracked into ESL courses by public schools fight an uphill battle when attempting to acquire an education. Bejarano’s (2007) study of Mexican@ and Chican@ youth identity in an Arizona high school, and MendozaDenton’s (2008) study of Mexican@s/Chican@s in a California high school provide detailed insight into the battles waged by Mexican@s in high schools. Mendoza-Denton shows how the manner in which children are taught in Mexico can be very different from how they are taught in the United States. Recounting an experience with a 1.5-generation immigrant from Mexico City who happened to be a math whiz, she describes her surprise to learn that the two education systems are very different, including how math problems are solved. She describes her initial experiences with “Junior”: “We would sit together at one table and tutor whoever needed help, sometimes coming up with different ways of solving the same equations. He would teach me calculus vocabulary in Spanish . . . and the latest ways to solve equations from Mexico City, contrasting them with how equations were solved in the U.S. Who knew that there were distinctive ‘math dialects’ across countries?” (102). Her description in this passage and throughout her study of the educational and other experiences of young U.S. Mexican@s illustrates how difficult education can be for Mexican@ youth. Her descriptions and those of Akwid confirm how the educational institution works against the success of 1.5 and 2nd generation Mexican@s. The structure of school for Mexican@s in the United States undermines their success since Mexican kids are tracked into ESL classes and, as a result, have very few opportunities to take accelerated classes that would allow them entrance into universities. Mendoza-Denton (2008) discusses the 1995 California Education Code and how it disadvantages Mexican@ students. The categories Limited English Proficient (LEP) and Fluent English Proficient (FEP) are based on written standards, so that orally proficient students are often placed in ESL classes whose content is

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remedial (32–35). Many students encountered by Mendoza-Denton were orally proficient and advanced in English. Because they were labeled LEP by the schools, they were tracked into ESL courses. This placement or tracking causes hardship for students who want to attend four-year universities. She explains: These acronyms played a large role in determining and predicting a student’s educational opportunities. When classified as LEP, a student could not follow the school’s regular course program for college preparation, but instead had to continue taking English as a Second Language courses. Although ESL courses counted toward fulfilling a student’s high school graduation requirements, only the most advanced ESL courses counted toward fulfilling the basic four-year college entrance requirements. . . . Even when they did graduate from high school and attended a community college, the remedial ESL courses that they needed to take in order to qualify for enrollment in regular college classes would set them back at least one full year. The opportunity cost of that time was simply too high for poor families who relied on their children for increasing financial contributions to the household. (34–35)

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

After the introductory skit, the song “El Principio” (The Beginning) continues the exploration of young Mexican immigrants’ experiences with U.S. education. In order to understand the life of the 1.5 generation of Mexican@s who came to the United States from Mexico as young children, one has to begin at the beginning, or upon arrival in the United States. Akwid explains in the opening lines of the song: Comenzando desde el principio.

[Starting at the beginning.

Vine a los Estados Unidos

I came to the United States

Como mojado reconocido.

Recognized as a wetback.

Ahí nos reunimos.

Here we meet.

Los pocos que pasamos con hambre

The few that cross hungry and suffering

medio sufridos, Reconocer mi beneficio.

Recognize my kindness.

Al edad de cinco años viviendo un edificio,

At five years old living in a building

En un departamento sencillo.

In a simple apartment.

Perdido como una liebre entre la nieve.

Lost like a rabbit in the snow.

Éramos siete,

We were seven,

Bueno, menos mi jefe,

well, minus my father.]

Beginning from the time that the author came to the United States as an undocumented immigrant (“vine a los Estados Unidos como mojado reconocido”), life was difficult. The seven of them were often hungry, living in a simple apartment. In

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the United States the boy felt lost at the age of five, when he no longer had a father (“menos mi jefe”). Returning to the theme of education, Akwid continues in the first verse: Sin tener idea íbamos a clases.

[Without an idea we went to class.

Extranjero hasta la madre haciendo pases.

Feeling extremely foreign.

Gente desconocida

Strange people speaking

Hablaba en otra idioma la neta que yo

a language that I could not at all

me había,

understand

Ni la menor idea de que se trata.

Nor the least idea how to try to

Forzado a aprender sin saber lo que me falta.

Forced to learn without knowing

Uno que otro me extendió la mano,

Only some extended a hand,

Paisano, resaltamos como grano.

Countrymen, we come back like a

understand. what I lacked

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

seed.]

They say that as boys, they went to school having no idea what they were supposed to do (“sin tener idea íbamos a clases”). There they felt extremely foreign (“extranjero hasta la madre”). The children encountered unknown and strange people who spoke in a different language (“Gente desconocida hablaba en otra idioma”). Even the curriculum was strange as they were forced to learn foreign concepts as well as a foreign language. They persevered with the help of fellow Mexican@s who offered them assistance (“extendió la mano”). The tracking system is assailed by Akwid throughout E.S.L. On the compact disc, students subvert the ESL teacher and U.S. education through their inattention. Akwid’s ESL students, who may come from a more advanced curriculum in Mexico, question the usefulness of ESL, in which a teacher with little understanding of their culture (as evidenced by his poor Spanish and questioning of them and their status as gangbangers) speaks down to them. The students who often speak Spanish and English fluently feel that they are being patronized and stereotyped. Many resist through “troublemaking.” Akwid, Bejarano, and Mendoza-Denton show how the alienating educational institutions cause Mexican students to organize themselves in groups or gangs. In “El Principio,” Akwid explains that some fellow Mexican@s (“paisanos”) helped them out in this foreign and alienating place. The school system and dominant culture can cause shame (“vergüenza”) and a crisis in identity for Mexican youth. Akwid explains that they are made to feel humiliated as a result of their rural Mexican background: “Y humillado quedo yo por ser del rancho.” Their Mexicanness makes them suspect

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Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

as they are constantly questioned about who they are and where they come from: “Me preguntan quién soy yo / De dónde vengo.” In the final verse to “El Principio,” Akwid proudly claims who they are and defiantly says that “You can take me out the hood, / But you can’t take the hood out me, / ’Cause I’m ’a be where I come from, ’Cause I’m ’a be where I come from. See?” They claim to be “puro raza Mexicana, cien por ciento,” or 100 percent pure Mexican. The emcee implies that his reclaimed and redefined Mexican identity helps him overcome his situation and become stronger. He raps that he is “picudo como nopales. / Yo no me quejo esta es mi pinche vida / Como mi jefa buscando la salida. / No soy político tampoco menso.” He is dangerous like a cactus that can prick you. He doesn’t whine about his life, but like his mom he searches for a better way or a way out of his barrioized circumstances. He isn’t a politician or someone with keen insight into the machinations of our society, but he isn’t stupid (“menso”) either. The final verse ends with Akwid restating the theme that their identity results from their rural experience in Mexico and their urban U.S. experience. The author raps: “Me pueden sacar del rancho a pasos, / Pero a mí, el rancho no me lo sacan ni a madrazos.” They can take him outside of the country, but they can’t take the knowledge, experience, and wisdom of the countryside from him. The school system is an assimilating machine that often results in the loss of identity for Mexican@ youth. Even while the dominant U.S. culture stereotypes and discriminates against things Mexican, a strong rootedness in Mexican tradition and identity can help them overcome, survive, and prosper in the United States.

ESTA COPA PARA LOS INDOCUMENTADOS

Throughout Akwid’s body of work, they express solidarity with their Mexican compatriots, especially los indocumentados (the undocumented), who suffer indignities, financial hardship, familial disarray, and other threats as they attempt to work in the United States. They tell detailed, sympathetic, and sometimes humorous stories of immigrant life. Their song “Indocumentados” exemplifies this manner of storytelling and identity-claiming. They also often celebrate the resilience of Mexican people, and in the song “Esta Copa” offer a toast, un brindis, to the hardworking survivors toiling in a number of different occupations in the United States. “Indocumentados” tells a story of undocumented workers and the troubles they encounter. The song begins with mariachi horns playing a sorrowful lament. The chorus sums up their life as they rap: “Por venir del otro lado, tengo que andar agachado. / Me dicen que soy mojado.” Simply because they come from Mexico, el otro lado, they must walk around in a shadow and not be seen, and are called racial epithets (mojado or wetback). In the first verse, Akwid begins telling of three men

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who have to stand around at Home Depot waiting for work. Since they have no steady work, they have to do this in order to earn the money they need to survive. They rap: Había casi seis meses y todavía

[It’s been six months and still

no encuentro jale

no work.

No tengo feria. Hay que buscarle.

I don’t have money. I have to find some.

Voy a pararme en Home Depot de

I’m going to stand on the corner of Home

la esquina.

Depot.

Cuando no hay jale esa

When there’s no work this

es mi rutina.

Is my routine.

Hay un chingo esperando

I’ve been waiting a long time.

Conozco a dos gueys,

I know these two countrymen,

a Jose y Alejandro.

Jose and Alejandro.

La historia es la misma.

The story is the same.

todos jodidos.

We’re all screwed.]

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Soon a white man asks for three workers. The three protagonists jump into the man’s truck without even so much as an introduction. Soon they are stopped by the INS. After a brief altercation the three escape in a car. The story ends with them abandoning the car and separating. Akwid raps: Abandonamos el coche y nos separamos

[We abandon the car and separate.

Le diga al compa “mucha suerte y nos

I say to my friend, “Good luck. See you

miramos.” Si no hay feria, no hay papeles, no hay de nada . . .

later.” Without money, you can’t get papers, there isn’t anything.

Me aguanta un poco

I’m a little saddened

Pero nada preocupado

but nothing to worry about

Porque mañana donde mismo estaré

because tomorrow I’ll be standing in the

parado.

same spot.]

While life is difficult for these men, they don’t worry, since they know how to get around the system and will continue to struggle for a better life. The impact of the song is heightened by the use of strategically placed conversations, police sirens and radios, screeching wheels, and other sounds. The rapid pace of the song and its use of whining trumpets and other Mexican musics add to the impact. The second verse describes an encounter with the health-care system in which their undocumented status prevents them from accessing health care. Without residency or citizenship documents, they are unable to get health insurance. They are continually asked to

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demonstrate their legal status to receive any type of assistance. With the line “sin papeles esa es el único sistema” [without legal papers that is the only system], they summarize the obstacles faced by the undocumented workers, and their orientation toward the troubles they encounter in the United States. Akwid displays solidarity with the large class of undocumented Mexican workers who toil without much thanks and for little pay in the United States. The song “Esta Copa” is their celebration of these workers. The song begins with church organ music and a man praying, presumably in a Catholic church. He thanks God, without whom he would not have food, shelter, or services. Amusingly, he ends with “Gracias. Tank you bery much.” The horn-heavy music highlights tubas and trumpets and the banda drum set. Electronic and digital sounds round out the soundscape of this hip-hop banda tune. The chorus sums up the theme of the song: Esta copa se brindo por el jardinero, el pintor, el mesero, el cocinero Esta copa se brindo por taquero, el lavacarros, el chalán, el carpintero Esta copa se brindo por carnicero, el lavaplatos y también el caminero Esta copa se brindo el mecánico, el costurero, y el ranchero [This cup is a toast to the gardener, the painter, the waiter, the cook. This cup is a toast to the taco seller, the carwasher, the hustler, the carpenter. This cup is a toast to the butcher, the dishwasher, and also the truck driver.

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

This cup is a toast to the mechanic, the clothes maker, and the rancher.]

Akwid honors all Mexican workers because without them few in the United States would be able to exist. They argue that we rely almost completely on other workers to supply us with our food, health care, cleaning, car maintenance, gardening, and many other things. Akwid puts it humorously: “Sin tí no viera carne asada ni nada. Sinceramente, te lo digo porque es cierto.” [Without you there wouldn’t be carne asada or anything. Sincerely, I tell you this because it is true.] Throughout the song, Akwid thanks people who do critical labor in our economy. They praise bean sellers, plumbers, watchmakers, milkmen, hustlers, kids on the block selling marijuana, barbers, tamale sellers, and others. Akwid explains the importance of these Mexican workers, rapping: “El mundo no gira, siendo bien sincero,” [The world wouldn’t spin, I’m being sincere,] “sin gente como tú con la espalda de asero.” [without people like you with backs of steel.] The importance of Mexican labor is pointed out with irony as Akwid raps: “Todos los restaurantes son Chinos-Americanos. Todos los cocineros son Mexicanos.” Mexicans are essential to the ubiquitous Chinese restaurants found in every city and town in the country. Akwid shows us that even our “Chinese” food is prepared for us by a largely Mexican workforce.

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Akwid lets everyone know that they are proud (“estoy orgulloso”) to be Mexican. They tip their hat (“quito mi sombrero”) in honor of those who make it possible for all of us to live. Addressing fellow Mexican nationals, they rap: “Soy tu mejor amigo. Me dicen ‘Paísa!’ Contesto con orgullo!” [I’m your best friend. They say to me, “Countryman!” I reply with pride.] In another part of the song, they ask the cactus preparer, tamale vendor, and barber to raise their hands (“Levanta la mano si es nopalero, tamalero, peluquero”). Akwid is so grateful to these paísas that they want them to be recognized by everyone as the extremely valuable people that they are. Awkid shows their racialized working-class consciousness with the following lines: “Chingue a quien jale en un Mercedes” [Screw those who work in a Mercedes]. This line exhibits the class-based perspective of Akwid. They often speak about whites as a racial group and discuss white racial privilege and racism. But they save their scorn for wealthy people—those who, in this instance, drive a Mercedes. Their celebration of Mexicanness often includes a critique of the ruling class in the United States, and those in institutions such as education or government agencies who fail to properly serve Mexicans or, worse, actively oppress them.

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The Tex-Mex Parody of Chingo Bling

Chingo Bling, from a different part of Mexican America, Houston, also actively and cleverly valorizes the Mexican in U.S. society. Humor has a special place in hip-hop. An important verbal technique in hip-hop includes clever wordplay exemplified by African American verbal gamesmanship, like playing the dozens, signifyin’, boasting, and multiple entendre. Many of the most beloved raps involve an emcee discussing his greatness and/or the inferiority of a foe. Metaphor, simile, misdirection, and sexual humor are devices used to vie for verbal superiority. Many of the rap songs that grace the pop charts involve humor. Houston emcee Chingo Bling has made a name for himself as one of the most humorous trickster characters in independent hip-hop. From his choice of name, which would loosely translate into “A Lot of Jewels,” to the titles of his songs, albums, and website ventures, Pedro Herrera III plays with stereotypes and cultural icons to make pointed social critique, have fun, and earn a living. According to his official website, Chingo was born in Houston to Mexican immigrants. His musical influences include Mexican regional musics and hip-hop. As a working-class Mexican American of immigrant parents, Chingo experienced the racism and surveillance of Mexicans by the state and general public. The stereotypes of Mexicans as foreigners with strange style and poor language skills were all around

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Chingo. As a means of fighting against racism and stereotypes, Chingo developed a persona that makes fun of our society and its racism.4 His character wears expensive boots (snakeskin and ostrich), large cowboy hats, gold teeth, gold jewelry, large belt buckles, designer sunglasses, fur coats, and T-shirts. He surrounds himself with the accoutrements of ghetto fabulousness, including expensive alcohol, custom cars, and scantily clad women. His Texas-Mexican hip-hop language mixes Mexican Spanish, caló, Ebonics, and English with Chingo-isms or Chinglish (unique words and phrases created by Chingo Bling). In the course of parodying everything about U.S. society and culture, including hip-hop and Mexican American culture, Chingo has created a brand for himself that at one and the same time is grossly commercial and enjoyably subversive. Chingo identifies with raza and their struggles against racism and for cultural autonomy and equality. Songs such as “They Can’t Deport Us All” reveal his proimmigrant, pro-Mexican politics. Here I will examine two songs that illustrate his parody, politics, and Mexicano identity: “Ridin’ Remix” and “Dear Mr. President.” Over the music to Chamillionaire’s multiplatinum hit “Ridin’,” Chingo raps the lyrics to “Ridin’ Remix”: (Chorus) The immigration be hatin’ Patrollin’ Tryin’ to build them bigger fences (5x) Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Pinche George Bush, he’s hatin’ Him and the coast guard is Trying to get us deportated (5x) (Verse 1) News on the TV screen Jump the fence and I tore my jeans Cross the border and I sneak a lean They hatin’ on me cuz my card ain’t green Ride with a new chick her name is Paula Coca cola up in her cola Gotta mix it up with the masola Turn powder into a border Got one in the dashboard and three in the trunk That dog bark now we all stuck Chingo Bling ain’t no punk Gotta speak in code cuz it’s hot as fuck

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Like all good hip-hop poetry, Chingo’s song is multilayered and fun, provides a social critique, and is full of clever wordplay. Chingo’s song also references previous hip-hop history as it uses the music and theme of Chamillionaire’s popular song. In effect, it samples Chamillionaire without biting.5 Chingo’s song is well saturated. Pate (2010, 46) explains that saturation “is the degree to which a rap/poem, through its use of language, image, and ethos, communicates hip-hop culture.” “Ridin’ Remix” uses a number of common hip-hop tropes including drug use, word pronunciation, and words and concepts that come from hip-hop culture and serve to provide the listener with an understanding of this segment of the HHN. The song is also saturated in terms of its “service to the culture that created it” (46) or Mexican American culture. He examines the common hip-hop theme of illicit drug activity at the same time that he questions the dominant culture and institutions in the United States and their historical practice of criminalizing Mexicans. Drug trafficking is referenced in Chingo’s discussion of “coca,” which is Mexican slang for cocaine, and the lines “got one in the dashboard and three in the trunk / that dog bark now we all stuck,” which suggest that efforts to smuggle cocaine were thwarted by a drug dog. Depending on who is interpreting the song, Chingo’s discussion of drug trafficking and border crossing may be conflated, as often happens in the American imaginary. According to the dominant discourse, part of the problem of undocumented Mexican immigration involves their alleged drug trafficking. Combining both in the course of one verse can be seen to reinforce this ideological position. From such a position, Chingo’s critique can easily be dismissed. Unfortunately, this is a major challenge with which all hip-hop music must cope. Cultural and linguistic misunderstanding on the part of those outside of the HHN allows them to take lyrics out of context, choose the most immoral songs or artists as representative of hip-hop, and thus easily condemn hip-hop in toto. Those who understand Chingo’s and others’ full body of work can better contextualize such a drug reference and are able to understand the moral and economic dilemma with which many working- and underclass Mexican/Chican@ youth must cope. Often, they choose illicit drug selling as a means of survival in a world of limited opportunity.6 Without dismissing Chingo’s references to illicit drug activity, we can analyze his critique of U.S. immigration and immigrant law. The chorus addresses the controversial practice of the building of an apartheid-like or East German–like fence along the U.S.-Mexican border. This practice causes Chingo to describe Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), and the Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) before it, as being hateful and discriminating (“the immigration be hatin’ . . . tryin’ to build them bigger fences”). In addition, Chingo calls out then President George W.

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Bush as the symbol of government power that causes oppression and violence against Mexican immigrants. As Chingo explains, he “and the Coast Guard is tryin’ to get us deportated.” Here he develops a Chingo-ism to elicit laughter at Mr. Bush, who was known to make such gaffes during public-speaking engagements, as well as tie him to Mexicans and Mexican speech patterns. One can imagine a non-native learner of English misconjugating the past tense of “deport” as “deportated,” instead of the grammatically correct “deported.” While Chingo’s rap/poem is in English, his pronunciation, theme, and “mistakes” position him in an undocumented Mexican world. His affinity and kinship with immigrants are further revealed in other lyrics in his song. He acknowledges the struggle of Mexican immigrants as well as their keen sense of survival and ability to make do with very little: their rasquachismo.7 Later in the song, Chingo raps: You build your fences, We dig our tunnels. Home Depot

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has a sale on all the chovels (5×)

This excerpt acknowledges immigrant survival skills and rasquachismo. Undocumented immigrants come to the United States in order to survive the effects of a poor Mexican economy, especially after the implementation of NAFTA and other neoliberal reforms. Their efforts are met with resistance from the most powerful nation on Earth, which spends hundreds of millions each year trying to keep them out through the border patrol, ICE, and tactics such as building fences. Against insurmountable odds, the immigrant uses a cheap shovel (rendered with a Northern Mexican accent as “chovel”) bought from an icon of U.S. commerce, Home Depot, to make her/his way to the United States and, hopefully, to a better life. Chingo further acknowledges Mexican ingenuity when he raps: My tío Chema, he made a laincha With duct tape, floaties and a couple llantas. Out of a couple llantas (2×) The llantas from his ranfla (2×).

Using the pachuco argot, code-switching, and Chinglish, he acknowledges not only rasquachismo, but the incredible engineering and craft skills of many Mexicans who are forced to make do with little. His uncle makes a lawn chair (laincha) from old car tires (“llantas from his ranfla”), duct tape, and floaties (inner tubes). Chingo references the old barriological dicho (“saying”) that a good Mexican/Chicano mechanic

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or handyman can fix anything with duct or electrical tape. While many might see this jerry-rigging as low-class, it is this ingenuity that allows many Mexicans to survive and thrive in a society that has denied them legitimate opportunities. Thus, in four simple lines Chingo celebrates Mexican ingenuity, discusses Mexican poverty, and critiques U.S. oppression. Chingo furthers his critique of government and links himself to the Mexican diasporic community in the United States in his song “Dear Mr. President.” The chorus, sung by Russell Lee, explains why the president enacts policies that they believe are detrimental to poor people and people of color: Dear Mr. President, you always tell us that it’s all good But you ain’t never been to my hood. You don’t know what it’s like. Come take a ride with me and let me show you that it’s real. Always tellin’ us there’s gonna be a change But we know that’s some bullshit, mane. But the sun gonna shine after the rain

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Even though you forgot about us.

The chorus establishes the themes for the song, which include lies and deceit on the part of the president, a critique of urban problems, and a desire to overcome these problems. The singer challenges the president to understand the goings-on in poor communities (the hood) by taking a ride with him. He displays mistrust of the president and, by extension, politicians in general who continually promise change. Barrio residents recognize that the ruling classes and government care little for them and that they must survive in spite of neglect. However, they are hopeful that things will change. Chingo’s lyrics, like Kinto Sol’s, Mexiclan’s, and Akwid’s, illustrate a diasporic Mexicanness within the United States. In spite of the obstacles to the “American Dream” placed in the way of Mexican immigrants and their children by institutions such as schools, criminal justice, the media, and immigration, Mexicans in the United States prove to be resilient. They organize in political parties, use their families for support, and resist Americanization and denigration of their Mexicanness. Chingo uses humor to examine serious, often life-or-death, subjects. His clever use of racial stereotypes in a humorous manner has made him a very popular independent artist. Chingo’s use of parody to sing about the inequalities and injustices of life in a whitesupremacist, xenophobic, global capitalist world presents a rhetorical challenge to the maze of legislative, economic, and cultural assaults on people of Mexican descent. Similarly, Kelley (2002, 165) explains in the context of the blues: “The absurdity

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of racism and the fragile and strange world of white supremacy produced a deep wellspring of jokes, hilarious folktales, and humorous word games (e.g., ‘the dozens’) that cut to the heart of our past and present slavery.”

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Conclusions

Mexicano/Chicano emcees throughout the spectrum of identities that we find at the beginning of the twenty-first century use Mexican national iconography in their lyrical self-representation. The Mexican flag, colors of the flag, references to historical figures, sayings/dichos, among many other images, are common among people of Mexican descent in hip-hop. For most it is but one of many influences. For others, like Kinto Sol, Akwid, Mexiclan, and Chingo Bling, la patria figures prominently in their identity construction. As part of the Mexican and Mesoamerican diaspora in the United States, emcees also must deal with constructions of “immigrant,” “illegal,” and “citizen.” They analyze their relationship to U.S. culture, legal structure, and economy in their music. Through their grappling with these institutions, these rap poets develop an immigrant identity. They imbue lo mexicano (“things Mexican”) with positive attributes as a counternarrative to that of the story told through the dominant ideological apparatuses. Things “Mexican” take on inviolable and powerful attributes. The exaggerated exaltation of lo mexicano masks many of the contradictions of the heteronormative patriarchal and class contradictions of the culture. Primary among these is the marginalization of women, gays and lesbians, and others who are treated as invisible or as the Other upon which the heterosexual macho develops his superiority complex. The macho sees himself as the dominant—superior mentally, physically, and sexually. The woman serves the male. The homosexual is ridiculed as the leva, chavala, joto, or guey.8 An important signifier of the heteronormative patriarchal gender structure is la familia. The family has a long history as an organizing concept in the development of Chicano/Mexicano identity and consciousness, and Chican@ cultural and nationalist politics. As Rodriguez (2009) states, the heteronormative patriarchal family structure—as developed in Chicano expressive culture and reinforced in movement politics and the Church—has dominated our understanding of gender roles and sexuality. The male head of house becomes the ideal Chicano/Mexicano. He has dominion in his home. Moreover, the Mexican nation depends on this man. As part of the struggle against racism and xenophobia that Mexicans and immigrants encounter in the United States, the ideal Mexicano becomes solidified and amplified

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as the key to equality and freedom for the Mexican nation. This familial and gender ideal results in a reactionary process that maintains the logic of European capitalist patriarchy. It merely reinforces male privilege for Mexican males. The inequality inherent in the construction of the Mexican man and la familia can only lead to partial equality and freedom. The alternative kinship networks adopted by many Chican@/Mexican@ queers are proposed as a model by Rodríguez (2009) and Moraga (1993). Perhaps the family can become more inclusive and overcome its heteronormative, patriarchal bias. However, within hip-hop we are far from seeing such a redefinition of family. Further troubling, from the perspective of the social-justice activist and revolutionary, is the consistent obscuring of class difference and oppression made by Mexican nationalist emcees. Through speaking only of a liberatory praxis for people of Mexican descent, they fail to see how many of the ideas, heroes, and icons that they promote as Mexican have been harmful to the working class in Mexico. In addition, their nationalist stance limits the possibility of a broader class-consciousness that includes workers of other nationalities, races, and ethnicities. Similarly, the Mexican nationalism adopted by Chicano/Mexicano emcees has inherent problems around gender and race that make it improbable as a means to justice and freedom for people of the Mexican and Mesoamerican diaspora. Nevertheless, the emcees that express a Mexican national identity often do so as a means of struggle. Their identity counters the representations of them as inferior in the dominant culture. Denigrating the dominant U.S. culture, these rap poets claim an empowered Mexican identity. In addition, lo mexicano for them has taken on aspects of U.S. and working-class hip-hop cultures. The inner-city ghetto/barrio culture has informed their Mexicanness. This border narrative of the polycultural Mexican in the United States represents “America/Amerika” and themselves in ways very different from the official American mythology.

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CHA PTER 5

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Barrio Locos: Street Hop and Amerikan Identity

The very existence of the Chican@/Mexican@ presents a challenge to “America.” Their existence means the United States has to deal with its colonial past. These descendants of Native American people were on this continent first. In order to understand their existence, one must understand conquest, the taming of the West, the Mexican-American War, and racism. To avoid this unpleasant reality, the Chican@/Mexican@ becomes forever foreign in the eyes of dominant group members. Making them foreign and not quite American allows the dominant discourse on the United States or “America” to be filled with ideals such as democracy, opportunity, and freedom. It allows for an understanding of America that excludes racial inequality and class warfare. But, the existence of the Chican@/Mexican@, especially the one who speaks out, causes a rethinking of “America” and “Mexican American” or Chicano/Chicana. Millions of Chican@s/Mexican@s were born in the United States, and as discussed in previous chapters, the lands currently occupied by the United States, especially the West and Southwest, are their ancestral homelands, and the homelands of many Native American peoples. Moreover, Chican@/Mexican@ culture and people have been integral to the development of the United States for centuries. Yet, they remain “foreign,” “illegal,” and “alien.” n

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In a situation of denial, denigration, and oppression, many of the most disenfranchised Chican@s/Mexican@s have adapted an older street-wise and resistant identity and have created a new “loco” identity. Cypress Hill, important figures in hip-hop, described the “loco” in their famous “Insane in the Brain” (1993). They rap: “Don’t you know I’m loco? / . . . . insane in the mem-brain / I’ve got no brain / I’m going insane.” The loco and Chicano street-hop emcees develop their identities from Chican@ and Mexican@ culture, hip-hop culture, interaction and exchange with black Americans, urban experience, and their relationship to the dominant U.S. culture and its mythologies of race, class, and nationalism. The following sections describe the unique identity, epistemology, and politics found in “street hop” music and culture. This includes a discussion of Chicano street-hop language, understanding of violence, values, politics, analysis of the capitalist class structure, war, race and racism, immigration and nativism, and resistance to barrioization. The “barrio loco” shines a light on power and politics in the United States, as well as contributing to our understanding of some of today’s Chican@ youth and young adults. The “sick” youth or loco reflects a resistant working-class subject often celebrated in Mexican@ and Chican@ culture. They make the same argument as anarchists who believe that under an authoritarian, racist, colonial, legal regime, one has a “right to rebel,” to say no to authority.1 In his paen to revolutionaries, “Outlaws,” Ricardo Flores Magón argues that “the true revolutionary is an outlaw par excellence” since the law stands as a barrier to revolutionary activity (Bufe and Verter 2005, 241–42). On the other hand, without class consciousness and committed community backing, violent rebellion often harms the very communities from which the rebels come. Before we examine the new outlaw identity, the “Sickside” loco, and his politics as presented in the lyrics of street-hop artists, we must discuss a framework for understanding their attitudes and analyses. This framework highlights the importance of capitalism, racism, and colonialism to Chicano street-hop expression.

Colonialism, Ideology, and Resistance

Chican@s and Mexican@s are a colonized population. As previously discussed, the ruling elites of U.S. society and the white settler population in the West and Southwest initiated a relationship of violence and suspicion with the Mexican population of Northern Mexico. The initial contact between the groups involved private and public murders of the indigenous and mestizo population of Mexico and the appropriation of native and Mexican@ land and resources. Mexicans became a laboring class for the wealthy, almost exclusively white settler population. This colonial process, begun in the seventeenth century in the United States, continues through laws favoring

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the dominant group, mob violence, exclusion through English monolingualism, labor laws, and agreements such as the Bracero Program, immigration laws, and international economic treaties such as NAFTA.2 Media and popular-culture depictions of Mexican@s’ and whites’ relationship to them reinforces the colonial relationship through “magnif[ying] colonized images of oppressed people.” Ball (2011, 32) describes this process as psychic violence or terror. Street hop, like other forms of resistant communication and music, practices a decolonial cultural politics in contrast to the hegemonic corporate media and culture industries. Ball defines colonialism as “a relationship between two (or more) racially, ethnically, culturally, and spatially distinct and defined groups between which there is an absolute imbalance of power, whereby one determines the social, political and economic condition of the other” (30). Colonial powers have concerned themselves with maintaining and broadening their power through the extraction of the natural resources of the colonized natives and the exploitation of their labor. The historical experience of Mexican@s in the United States exemplifies this resource extraction and labor exploitation. The lands taken from Mexicans provided their new owners with ranching and farming operations, oil, coal, uranium, ports, and a whole host of profit-generating resources that have solidified the dominance of the white settler population. Mexican labor turned these resources into commodities that employers could sell for profit. These agropastoral people had to be transformed into wage earners (become proletarianized), and their methods of political and economic organization had to be eliminated in order for the triumph of Capital to be complete in the new U.S. Southwest. Importantly for our focus here, Ball points out that the white settler population, especially the ruling elites, has long mined the vast cultural resources of enslaved Africans and their children in much the same way that uranium and coal in Mexico’s former northern territories enriched the settlers. The musical traditions of Africans have been especially lucrative for white businessmen. This trend has not dissipated, as the hip-hop industry has made billions for the four largest media conglomerates that control 90 percent of the music industry. Through media consolidation, recording contracts, and copyright law, these corporations control not only the cash flows that come from black musical culture, but also the meanings of blackness and whiteness produced therein. Ball astutely remarks that “The theft of cultural expression has also resulted in a theft of their function” (69). The function of black music included fun and leisure, but also communication, community bonding, storytelling, and expression of black emotion in a colonized America. Corporate annexation of the latest and most powerful black music, hip-hop, has led to the erosion of these functions of black music. In their place is a narrow rendering of blackness that serves the ideological agenda of the capitalist ruling class. The lewd, criminal, violent,

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and unintelligent images found in corporate rap music justifies the ill treatment of black people and makes invisible the sociohistorical conditions against which blacks struggle every day. Ball explains further that the media “are best understood as those channels through which ideology and culture are transmitted, such that they shape consciousness specifically (only!) to determine the behavior of the target population” (47)—the point of which is to maintain control of the subject population as well as the settler population, which responds to the ideological indoctrination by being “disciplined” and “civilized” workers, and through anti-black racism and indifference to black suffering. Through shaping the images of the subject population, the ruling class not only controls the behavior of the colonized and the settler populations but also creates a “mythological self image” that normalizes their supposed superiority (50). The ideological domination or hegemony of the ruling class in the United States is so complete today that members of the colonized populations willingly do the ideological work for them. Through their music and other cultural production, black men and Chicanos/Mexicanos often reproduce the fantasies that whites have of them. A new black and brown comprador class has earned the stamp of approval from the owners of the culture industries. For their acquiescence, black and Latino rappers and actors earn a small percentage of the profits from their music and get to live lives of pop stars. This “selling out” does not sit well with many of the more thoughtful artists. Many recognize the colonial relationship that artists have with record companies. They know that record companies steal their cultural resources and labor in return for a low wage. Those such as Chicano street-hoppers refuse to be trapped economically by the lure of the recording industry and its perks. Street-hop artists also reject the image of themselves presented by the music industry. They resent the elite rendering of Chicanos, and their lyrics comment on the industry as well as provide different images. Their resistance comes in the form of a new language and worldview expressed over bass-heavy music.

La Prueba: Testing Barriology

How do you know if you are “street” enough? How do you know if you are Chicano or Chicana enough? Why not take a test that examines your knowledge of all things Chican@ and barrio? Chicanos challenge the marginalization of their culture and language in many ways. One is to highly value knowledge of Chican@/Mexican@ culture. In the late 1960s, the magazine Con Safos coined the term barriology, which Villa (2000) describes as “a playful but serious promotion of the cultural knowledge

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and practices particular to the barrio. The linguistic hybridization of the Spanish root term barrio with the Latin suffix logos, combining and juxtaposing Chicano popular associations of social space with elite connotations of academic disciplines, was itself a representative barriological practice” (7). To test barrio knowledge, Con Safos featured “barriology exams.” The exams ask humorous questions that reflect a unique Chican@ knowledge base. Villa reproduces a barriology exam with questions such as “Menudo is made from tripe, which is: A. the cow’s stomach, B. the cow’s flank, C. Horse meat, D. mutton,” and “What does the barrio mechanic use to remove grease from his hands after completing his task?” (9). Thief Sicario updates and puts a hip-hop spin on the barriology exam in his song “La Prueba” (The Test).3 The multilingual song tests knowledge of barrio hiphop language. Sicario translates important street-hop barriological concepts from English, to black street speech, to hip-hop slang, to Spanish, caló, and street hop. This test, like barriology exams before it, valorizes the knowledge and language of marginalized Chicanos. While the dominant trend is to see Standard American English as a prestige language, and Chican@s/Mexican@s as less intelligent, in part, because they cannot speak “proper” English, “La Prueba” affirms Chicano languageuse practices, barrio culture, and Mexican/Chican@ people.4 The chorus imitates a sound check of a microphone. “Uno, dos, tres / probando, probando / uno, dos, tres, / probando” [one, two, three / testing, testing]. A sound check is done before a concert to make sure that the sound from the microphones and instruments is clear and has the desired quality for the performance. The microphone is tested to make sure the audience can hear what the emcee is saying. Thus, Thief is making sure that the audience can hear the oral exam he is giving. Throughout the song, Sicario essentially asks whether or not the audience knows the street-hop words for important terms. He begins by explaining that “In that Sickside, street slang is caló.” Caló is, of course, the term for the unique version of Spanglish5 spoken by Chicano street youth. Sicario’s street-hop caló is polyglot, reflecting its polycultural nature. The basis for street-hop language is pachuco caló (itself a hybrid language) of the 1940s and 1950s. Chicano language, it seems, has always been polycultural. The nature of Chican@s as colonial subjects means that their language and culture will be mixed. Chican@s are by definition mestizos. Arteaga’s (1997) poignant writings on the subject prove useful for understanding how hybridity in culture and language are defining aspects of Chicanidad. Writing about caló, he states that it speaks for and forges a hybrid people, a mestizo, borderland people who articulate in language the cultural conflicts in which they are enmeshed. . . . The interlingual speech of the Chicano and the hybridized poem in particular are especially apt at expressing

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the ambiguities inherent in mestizaje. . . . The Chicano’s hybrid thought allows for a movement among discourses that replicates the possible range of perspectives on race

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or the homeland. (17)

The language-use practices of Chican@s reflect the material conditions experienced by Chican@s, and their subjectivity in the face of marginality. Living betwixt and between multiple worlds, Chican@s require a language that reflects this experience. Caught between these worlds, in the liminal space of the borderlands, Chican@s have myriad influences and ways of understanding themselves and important issues such as race, citizenship, and culture. Arteaga’s analysis of Chican@ poetry, in which street hop should be included, points to the manner by which Chican@ identity results from the hybridization process and is articulated with their use of language. Chicano street-hop rap poets recognize and articulate their identity and relationship to the dominant cultural and political systems. They recognize, like few others, that there is power in language. In a historical moment in which Chican@ and Mexican@ language-use practices are under attack by English Only and Official English movements, they defy the monologic of the dominant culture. The dominant culture attempts to define “American” as a monolingual subject. Contemporary colonial projects require linguistic assimilation and the colonial subject’s acceptance of a monologic. Arteaga points out that “the marginal other autocolonizes himself and herself each time the hegemonic discourse is articulated” (1997, 76). Chicano streethop language use, then, becomes a practice in “decolonizing the mind.” Through their hybrid language use, Chicano emcees defiantly speak their truth in their language. In essence, Sicario’s “La Prueba” challenges Chican@s to a test. Are you a colonial subject fully assimilated and docile, or a resistant Chicano who is “hip to the jive”? Knowledge of street-hop language suggests a resistant identity. Thief reasons that if you are hip, if you are down, or you are part of his in-group, then you know that A cancer stick is frajo / O.G. is veterano / Soldier’s a soldado / the struggle la lucha / a four pound’s a cohete / ya gat is ya fusca / ya wiz is your ruca / the jake is the jura / when you see him, yell “trucha” / whip’s your carrucha / knowledge is clecha / a juke is a jale / don’t say “no way” we say “chale” / the bricks is the calle / the club is the baile / if you fresh, you fresco / herb is mota or yesca / the chronic is yesca / your old Earth is jefa / you side is your lado / “What’s good” is firme / your rag is your pano / your blunt, a cigarro / a joint is a leño / thirteen’s trece / and if you’re from the south you’re sureño / if you thug in the hood that means you locote and if you hittin’ them trees that means you takin’ a toque.

Sicario is at once both teaching contemporary Chican@ street slang to the uninitiated and reaffirming his identity as a Chican@ street soldier. The terms he chooses to

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translate relate to concepts and experiences that are part of the world of the young in working-class and poor Chican@ urban communities. The primary themes addressed by Sicario include law enforcement (jura), street violence and gangs (veterano, O.G., soldado, cohete, calle, locote, thug, pano), and marijuana (leño, takin’ a toque, mota, yesca, blunt). In the second verse, Sicario writes: Word up, more or less, is orale / instead of saying “ay yo” around here we say “oye” / if a vato got ate he caught a filerazo / if you comin’ from the shoulders, that means you throwing chingazos / if you catch a hot one that means you caught a valazo / and if a vato got bodied he probley caught a cuetazo / ya kicks are your calcos / your pants, your

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tramos / your gear is your ropa / when we out, we say “vamos.”

These excerpts show the polyglot, polycultural nature of street hop and workingclass, urban Chican@ youth culture. Many of the words Sicario translates come from the early pachuco period. These include cuetazo, tramos, vato, and trucha. Still others have developed in Chicano gang or cholo culture, including sureño and trece. Many words and phrases come from Standard American English, such as “more or less,” “instead of saying,” “struggle,” “knowledge,” and so on. However, these are given new meaning in Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL) and black and Chican@ language use. “Struggle” or la lucha, for example, refers to specific types of antiracist, anti-poverty, and self-determination battles being waged in poor communities of color. In addition, Sicario’s dictionary provides further evidence of the exchange between working-class Chican@s and blacks. Sicario’s grammar, syntax, and pronunciation often come from black language practices like Ebonics. Copula absence is syntactically correct in Ebonics or black language use (BL) and “is one of the features that gives BL its distinctiveness, setting it apart from other varieties of American English” (Alim 2006, 116). Copula absence is the “absence of is and are in some present tense forms” of BL (115). Copula absence is exemplified when Thief raps, “if you fresh, you fresco.” Standard American English grammar would render this “if you are fresh.” Further, Sicario is not translating SAE words and concepts into Chican@ words. Most of the words and phrases that Sicario translates into Chican@ street slang are from contemporary black street speech. Words and phrases like “ay yo,” “caught a hot one,” “gear” and “we out” have been common among working-class black youth. Contemporary Chican@ street speech demonstrates a polycultural orientation among a large sector of twenty-first-century working-class Chican@s. Street-hoppers, in particular, have developed a unique perspective and identity. Through their experiences they develop a barriology with its own language, epistemology, ontology,

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politics, values, and identity claims. Many identify with the concept of the “Sickside” and identify as “Sickside soldiers.”

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Sickside Soldiers

Chicano street-hoppers examine the barrio from a perspective that includes a critique of power, colonialism, and racism. As such, they recognize that the place from which they originate is shaped in large part from a process of barrioization. These psychos come from the Sickside—a place where the colonized struggle to survive and prosper, and where a unique epistemology and ontology develops. As colonial subjects who resist (like pintos), they develop a warrior or soldier mentality. They become Sickside soldiers. In order to understand the Sickside, we need to begin with the work of Cypress Hill. As quoted earlier, in their most famous song, “Insane in the Brain,” B-Real, DJ Muggs, and Sen Dog claim to be crazy or loco. The crazy aspect of these multiracial Latinos results from barrioization and, according to the song, can lead them to kill. As they explain to those not a part of the Sickside in their song “How I Could Kill a Man”: “Here is something you can’t understand; / how I could kill a man.” In many of Cypress Hill’s songs, they express the insanity that accompanies living under barrioization in the Sickside. Cypress Hill contributed to the further theorizing of the Sickside as mentors to Delinquent Habits and Psycho Realm.6 Psycho Realm has been in the forefront of articulating the place-based epistemology and ontology of the Sickside soldier. Psycho Realm, consisting of brothers Sick Jack and Duke Gonzalez, and B-Real (the mentor and veteran emcee left the group after their first two compact discs), examines insanity, place, poverty, criminalization, and other barrioization techniques of power in their many recordings. The “Sickside” is any barrio where colonialism, racism, and poverty have coalesced into a place of few economic opportunities, gang and police violence, dilapidated housing, poor health, food insecurity, illegal entrepreneurial activity, and hopelessness. The Sickside state of mind, then, results from barrioization (those oppressive structures found in Chican@ communities that lead to poverty and marginalization) and barriology (the psychological state of resistance to it). Street-hoppers such as Psycho Realm paint a picture of these circumstances, develop an analysis of the causes of social problems, and provide formulas for developing a “Sickside state of mind” (a barriology) that resists. Psycho Realm’s Sickside politics are deftly rhymed over bass-heavy beats on their compact discs Untitled (n.d.), Psycho Realm (1997), A War Story Book I (1999), and A War Story Book II (2003), as well as on collaborations including Sickside Stories

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(2005 by Sick Symphonies), DJ Muggs vs. Sick Jacken: Legend of the Mask and the Assassin (2007), and Stray Bullets (Sick Jacken, 2010). Theirs are stories of resistance to barrioization, life in the barrios, and consequences of barrioization. Their politics include elements of Marxism and anarchism, a critique of the state and racism, and a perspective on the consolidation of power on a global scale by the super-rich.

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ANTI-AUTHORITARIAN POLITICS

“cointelpro” exemplifies Psycho Realm’s critique of oppressive state practices. The song and video from their collaboration with Street Platoon (Sick Symphonies 2005) places them at odds with the federal government, and by extension frames them as heroes of resistance to racist and capitalist oppression, similar to those who have been victims of FBI repression (Churchill and Vander Wall 1988).7 At the same time, the song is a critique of the music industry and equates it with oppressive state tactics. The music industry is, in essence, an ideological state apparatus (ISA), helping to promote U.S. hegemony and capitalist consumer culture.8 Beginning in the 1940s, the infamous FBI Counterintelligence Programs (cointelpro) were designed to investigate “subversives.” cointelpro has become popularized as a way to describe domestic spying operations, assassinations, and harassment arrests and other forms of repression against radical organizations— especially Third World freedom movements in the United States, such as the Black Panther Party, the American Indian Movement, the Puerto Rican Independence Movement, and the Brown Berets (Churchill and Vander Wall 1988). In fact, Churchill and Vander Wall argue that “The Bureau was founded, maintained, and steadily expanded as a mechanism to forestall, curtail and repress the expression of political diversity within the United States” (12). In essence, the FBI was established to maintain the balance of power in the United States in which a small group of elites control the politics and economics of the country, keeping the working classes and people of color relatively powerless. Crow, member of Street Platoon and Sick Symphonies, raps: It’s a top secret war against us. They’ll do whatever it takes to end us. They’re watching. Operation stopping the symphony. The industry’s got it in for me so if I should die and old age ain’t the cause, the CIA was involved. How do they solve their problems? By killing those that cause them.

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I shot ’em with resistance. I spit it at the system. I hit them with the hate. Remember my identity. It’s enemy of the state

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for the music I make.

Crow believes that because of the music he and Sick Symphonies make, they are a threat to the culture industries. The CIA will target them because of the revolutionary analyses they develop in their music. Like radical artists and activists of the past, they believe that their music has the potential to influence minds and inform the public of the nature of state oppression. Crow’s identity as “enemy of the state” echoes the anarchist opposition to the state. Using language similar to Crow, Mikhail Bakunin (2005b, 195) explains the anarchist opposition to the state, writing: “Whoever says State necessarily says domination, and consequently, slavery: A State without slavery, open or concealed, is inconceivable: that is why we are enemies of the State.” The state, according to the anarchist position, is an authoritarian structure that limits human freedom through law, education, and military structures. Freedom-desiring people, then, should resist it.9 Resistance to its logic and its laws marks one as a “criminal” or an enemy of the state. The video for “cointelpro” provides additional information regarding the street-hop critique of state power. The video opens, showing a cointelpro memo being typed. When the music begins, we see members of Sick Symphonies performing and working on marketing and distribution of their music under the surveillance of the FBI. A picture of Che Guevara sits on the desk alongside an FBI agent viewing surveillance materials of Sick Symphonies. The next verse shows the FBI arresting members of Sick Symphonies, binding, gagging, blindfolding, and throwing them into a van. The shots of the arrests are interspersed with Sick Symphonies performing on the street and interrogation/torture sessions. During the final verse, the video shows more images of the interrogation/torture sessions and street performances. Throughout the black-and-white video, Sick Symphonies members wear mostly black, including winter masks, gas masks (a symbol often used by Psycho Realm), black hooded sweatshirts (hoodies), olive-green army jackets, and Sickside soldier T-shirts. Their style, performance, music, and lyrics emphasize their message of resistance to the authorities of the FBI (a vehicle for state oppression) and the corporate music industry (a vehicle for economic oppression). The final scenes of the video examine the important ideological role that music can play in resistance to state power. The FBI agent is shown examining photos of members of Sick Symphonies alongside images of Bob Marley and Jim Morrison. The photos of Marley and Morrison have red X’s drawn through them. The implication

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is that the FBI or some similar “agent of repression” murdered both important countercultural artists.10 Many argue that since no one has satisfactorily explained their causes that the truth about their deaths has been covered up. Sick Symphonies members see themselves as akin to Marley, Morrison, and Guevara. The last image is of a cointelpro memo discussing Sick Symphonies. Psycho Realm and Sick Symphonies believe that their music can get people to critically examine illegitimate authority and resist. The final words of the song are from a sample of an uncredited speech by an unnamed orator.11 Speaking about the power of music he says: “Is it a conspiracy that the music is telling the youth to rise up against the establishment? That the establishment is destroying things? Is that a conspiracy?” Throughout the song, Sick Symphonies refers to the threat that street-hop music can be to state power and capitalism. Jacken raps in the first verse that “cointelpro wants to see us ghost / ’cause the Drug Lab cooks up a dose / of the pure. . . . They want to get me like Marley cuz I ring the alarm.” Since the music of The Drug Lab (part of the Sick Symphonies production team) tells the truth (“cooks up a dose of the pure”), they are threats that the FBI wants to eradicate. Jacken feels threatened by government agents because he sounds an alarm to other barrio youth, as Bob Marley did for the Rude Boys and Rastafarians of Jamaica and others around the globe. The final verse adds to the themes of ideological resistance, threat, and governmental abuse. Cynic raps:

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What, you suppose we wouldn’t compose music to teach those to our advantage we use it to free our bro’s? You know they plot and scheme to take out our team because we speak our mind and neglect what they bring. They use diseases and drugs so we could decease. Mistreat the restless youth while we’re all in peace. Try to control us with paranoia but we aware that they have it all sewn up so we defy them by exposing them.

Sick Symphonies’ music can be used as a pedagogical tool to help liberate barrio youth (“our bro’s”) from their status in racist, colonial, and capitalist institutions. Authorities “plot and scheme” to undermine people like Sick Symphonies because of the threat posed by the resistant stance in their music. They challenge the dominant ideologies and myths of the powerful—the ideological superstructure, if you will. This superstructure is required to maintain a docile population and thus continue elite political and economic domination. Cynic references well-documented practices of agents of state power using diseases to subdue populations. U.S. history is replete

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with events in which diseases such as smallpox were used to destroy native nations. In addition, many believe that newer diseases such as AIDS are plots by the powerful to destroy people of color. He also alludes to governmental experiments in using drugs such as LSD as means for controlling resistant populations and flooding poor areas with heroin and crack (Churchill 2003; Holland 1995). Cynic believes that young barrio and ghetto denizens are manipulated by power through a number of forces that will either cause them to destroy themselves through violence or have them killed by diseases and drugs. In the end, Sick Symphonies believe in the power of their words and music. By speaking truth to power, they defy it and expose the repressive actions against the poor and people of color. At the same time, they teach listeners and bring them “to a sickside mind” (Sick Jacken, “The Sickside,” 2009); would it be too much to suggest that they participate in a process of concientización? (Freire 2000). Chicano street-hoppers, like early twentieth-century Mexican anarchists,12 are skeptical about the political system and believe, for the most part, that the government is a plutocracy, with the wealthiest using their power to manipulate elections and laws for their own benefit. Like Ricardo Flores Magón, whose writings motivated and informed the revolutionary working class in Mexico and the Mexican@ Southwestern United States, they can be seen as propagandists in a new movement. Sick Symphonies’ song “Reason to Fight” (2005) expresses their criticism in this way: They say the vote is a smoke screen of hope. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

You’re acting like we got control over who gets chosen. I think it’s a joke. The president’s on dope, sniffing coke. He’s just a puppet, a patsy taking orders from a cult of the masked team.

They express a commonly held view that electoral politics are mere demonstrations,13 or exercises in deception. The voting process results in a contest between two individuals loyal to powerful corporate and military interests. They work in the interests of the power elite.14 (“He’s just a puppet, a patsy / taking orders from a cult of the masked team.”) The composers of these lyrics frame their analysis of power in the language of the covert and ultrapowerful and mysterious fraternal organizations. The language of “conspiracy” often enters the rhymes of street-hop emcees. They speak of secret societies like “Skull and Bones,” “Illuminati,” the leadership of the Catholic Church, and Masons. In addition, they reference things such as the New World Order and the Apocalypse. In “Reason to Fight” they illustrate this perspective, rapping:

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These schools don’t teach what we really supposed to understand and build upon. If you think you’re free brother you dead wrong / . . . . Most believe those lies that they feed us / like “go fight for your country and pave the way for god’s kingdom.” / So keep them dumb, deaf and blind so this world they run / in front of our eyes for their cause choose to die . . . . Cheney got a corporation that’s on the horize. / They’re aiming some more globalization that old conquer divide / . . . . Both of those running for office are just alike.

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/ They’re skull and bones brothers blood ties ritual rites.

Their analysis and critique of power suggests that we live in a society controlled by ever fewer corporations and powerful people. They point out how the plutocracy works when they mention the former vice president/former secretary of state/ former CEO of Halliburton, Dick Cheney. Politics, the military, and the corporate world (the military-industrial complex) work like a revolving door, with individuals moving from the private sector to the political and military throughout their careers. This revolving-door practice ensures that the interests of the most powerful and most wealthy determine governmental policy. This verse also speaks to ideological apparatuses used to keep information from the working classes, people of color, and other non-elites about how the world is run. They claim that educational institutions mislead children in order to keep them from questioning institutional and structural power—or, in the words of anarchist Max Stirner (2005b, 17, 19), “what is sought [by education] is submissiveness” and not “the molding of the free personality.” The increasing consolidation of power in the world whereby the wealthiest control more and more of the world’s wealth lends credence to the street-hop critique of power. The growing power of banks and the financial industries, deindustrialization, free trade, and other aspects of the national and global economy have created the current crises of housing, unemployment, and growing federal, state, local, and individual debt. These conditions have given rise to neoliberal economic practices of privatization, weakening of unions, lowering of wages, governments and corporations restructuring pension and retirement plans, and a growing number of workers without insurance. “Whether the condition of people is the result of whispered back room arrangements or the unwitting cumulative acts of society’s ‘middle-management,’ the resulting colonialism remains” (Ball 2011, 61). Call it the “Illuminati,” capitalist business-as-usual, or whatever one likes, the fact still remains, as pointed out by street-hoppers and progressive scholars and activists, that the rich are getting richer and the poor poorer. Roger Bybee (2010, 21) examines the capitalist economic crisis in the United States at the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century. He writes:

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Wage cuts are “occurring more frequently than at any time since the Great Depression,” according to economic writer Louis Uchitelle. Nearly 44 percent of all families have experienced a job loss, a reduction in hours, or a pay cut in the past year. The new round of pay cuts follows on the heels of a lengthy period of falling wages and sharply rising inequality. Inflation-adjusted wages in 2007 were 18 percent below those in 1973. The U.S.’s richest 1 percent collects 23.5 percent of all income and the even richer 1/10th of 1

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percent earns more than the bottom 150 million Americans.

This amounts to fewer than 14,000 families owning and controlling more wealth than the rest of the population combined (Ball 2011, 35). Working-class people make less than they did nearly forty years ago, and they are relatively poorer than the wealthiest in this country. The current wars and handouts to the rich in the form of tax breaks and bailouts mean that there is a lot less attention paid to the plight of the poor than there is to the increasing accumulation of capital by the rich. With this increase in capital comes an increase in power. Street-hoppers, who come from some of the communities in the United States that are most affected by the government privileging of the wealthy, view war as unethical and against their interests. Again these new millennial propagandists echo the attitude of Ricardo Flores Magón and the anarchist perspective on imperial wars. In “The World War” (Bufe and Verter 2005, 295), Flores Magón asks how many workers have died in this “evil war.” Similarly, street-hoppers view the U.S. wars in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, and attacks on and destabilization of other countries, as antithetical to their class interests and politics of antiauthoritarianism. The following excerpts from Sick Symphonies’ “Reason to Fight” explain this perspective: You know that change is a must. The initials of the U.S. is us. Before you join the military see what the war is about. We got a lot of dirt to clean in our house . . . The President committed treason. It’s the reason we stand and fight through the darkness and the light. The government lied, soldiers died in the fire or war, they got burned . . . Of course, I thank the Lord but no thank you for the war. Oil [is] what we’re fighting for. It’s the rich against the poor. Missiles flying overhead, bodies coming home dead.

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They argue that we have many domestic issues (“a lot of dirt to clean in our house”) to deal with before we spend billions fighting wars. They implore young men to understand U.S. imperial warfare before they decide to join the U.S. military. They, like many critics of the current wars in the Middle East, argue that President Bush lied about the reasons for going to war and the threat posed to us by the governments of Iraq and Afghanistan. Instead, the war is being fought so that the rich, especially in the petroleum industries and the military-industrial complex, can seize Middle Eastern resources. They argue that “it’s the rich against the poor.” The wealthy earn money from the war as the poor U.S. soldiers and citizens of Iraq die. Their argument essentially is anti-imperialist and class-based. Like their Chican@ activist precursors of the Chicano Moratorium Against the Vietnam War, members of South American solidarity movements of the 1980s, and Zapatista supporters of the 1990s, they believe that imperial warfare benefits the rich and further oppresses the poor.

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CLASS WARRIORS

Many Sick Symphonies songs illustrate the street-hop analysis of class. They, like Marxist and anarchist critiques of capitalism, see class in terms of a struggle between an elite class of the wealthy and one of working people—in Marxist and anarchist terms, the bourgeoisie and proletariat. The members of the group theorize that the elite benefit from wars in which working-class people are sent to kill and die and otherwise experience the horrors of war. The Cheney reference earlier alludes to this as well. They argue explicitly from what Marxists and anarchists call a class-conscious perspective. They see themselves in what amounts to a class war. They identify with the working- and underclasses, express solidarity with them, and try to inspire them to revolutionary and activist behavior. The song “Times We’re Living In” from the Sickside Stories compact disc is a vignette about working-class experience of wage labor, class struggle, and their dreams for a good life. The song opens with city sounds, including car horns that blend into funk horns. The music is persistent with a driving drum beat, including a strong and loud bass drum and a syncopated high hat, screeching guitar licks and rapid-fire piano figures. The chorus explains the difficulties of “making it” as a working-class person: I got a 9 to 5 trying to stay alive and it ain’t no jive. See, the man got me working but I’m barely just getting by and if it don’t make dollars it don’t make sense to me. Got to feed my seeds.

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So I break my back trying to make the cheese. .

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Get to hustling because I’m in a rush to be free.

Crow expresses the dilemma that many working-class people face: they want to survive and provide for their families, but hate the exploitive conditions and backbreaking work they must endure. The verses of the song provide details about the blue-collar working-class relationship to labor. Like many anarchists and other revolutionary critics of capitalism who argue that private property allows one class to dominate another, they recognize how their labor is exploited for profit for “the man” (McKay 2007)—though unlike anarchists and Marxists, they never condemn the wage itself as the central oppressive mechanism of capitalism. Crow describes such work as wage slavery, rhyming: “In this dark horse of a workforce called labor / they enslave ya. / 80 hours, two weeks to pay ya. / Day in and day out, / clocking in and clocking out.” This situation causes many working people to develop a critical view of and animosity toward “bosses” or “the man,” including having fantasies of killing their employers. Crow continues: “That’s why my scalp keeps thinking these thoughts / of knocking off my boss.” They recognize that under capitalist social conditions, the working-class relationship to corporate owners and bosses is one of exploitation, whereby they are paid less than the value that their labor produces. For example, Cynic says, “I’m legally getting pimped.” He compares his relationship to his boss to that of prostitutes to pimps. Like a prostitute who sells her/his labor and gives over the profits to a pimp, he is getting exploited by his boss. Crow echoes this analysis in the next verse, saying, “I think my company’s fucking me.” His work violates or rapes him. While work is not satisfying and is experienced as exploitative, they feel the important parts of their life are outside of alienating wage labor. Crow explains: “I can’t wait to get off / until then I feel insanity. / Get home to my family / spend a second with my kids / then it’s back to work again.” Cynic and Crow both mention that work does not define them, and that hip-hop is a strong component of their identities. They have great talents at writing and performing but are forced to work blue-collar jobs to support their families. They want to be free to engage in dignified labor. Theirs is similar to Marx’s argument that humans’ species-being involves self-edifying labor, and that exploitive labor under capitalism undermines our essence, leading to alienation. Anarchists extend the critique beyond capitalism, as exemplified by Murray Bookchin, who wrote that “hierarchies, classes, and states warp the creative powers of humanity” (qtd. in McKay 2007, 124). These street-hoppers acknowledge their alienation at the hands of “the man” and find their identity and value in the self-edifying, dignified labor and creativity of hip-hop. Theirs is a slightly modified version of Marx’s famous statement from The German Ideology:

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In communist society, where nobody has one exclusive sphere of activity but each can become accomplished in any branch he wishes society regulates the general production and thus makes it possible for me to do one thing today and another tomorrow, to hunt in the morning, fish in the afternoon, rear cattle in the evening, criticize after dinner, just as I have a mind, without ever becoming hunter, fisherman, shepherd or critic.”15

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RACE FROM THE SICKSIDE

Emcees from the Sickside and other street-hoppers attempt to educate their audiences about the history of race. The history of the United States is one of racial animosity, colonialism, slavery, and tyrannical violence in the forms of lynching, looting, and burning of communities of color. The Sick Symphonies’ song “If It Happened to You” expresses this perspective. They ask the listener to imagine what it would be like if they experienced racial violence and colonialism. The chorus implores us to “Imagine if it happened to you. / They came through and took what’s yours / didn’t care much about anything. / That’s how it’s told / so I grab my pen and note to spill my soul.” Imagining the genocide of indigenous Mexicans and Native Americans and the theft of their land by European colonizers, the artists feel obligated to write down their feelings about the pain caused to their ancestors and help listeners understand the nature of colonial violence. Later in the song, they ask us to imagine what the transatlantic slave trade and chattel slavery would have been like for the enslaved African. Guest emcee Bacardi Riam begins his verse exclaiming that I’m three-fifths of a man, uncivilized. That’s why today’s situation to me is no surprise. Imagine you were being told those lies. They promised everything under the skies and kidnapped all your people with the turn of the tide, took us all for a ride and claimed that it was to save us. They enslaved us to build theirs up [and] left us with the crumbs.

The author explains that in order to understand the present situation of racial inequality, one needs to begin with the early history of the United States, in which Africans were considered less than completely human and where they labored to enrich white owners. The result of “building theirs up” or enriching white slaveowners was that blacks were left impoverished, with little more than the “crumbs from the master’s table.” Cynic reminds us of the connection between African enslavement in the United

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States, the dispossession of native land and native genocide, and the contemporary lives of some people of color. He raps: We awaken and understand what they did when they came and took land, separate us, envisioned a plan of human contraband to take African man drop them off on Indian land. Change it up now we out of place. It feels awful when a stranger comes into your life and takes all that you’ve known, enforces a whole different nature.

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It could bring out ill behavior.

Native-land dispossession paved the way for colonization, and U.S. traffic in African slaves, and the plantation economy that created much of the wealth many enjoy today—called “primitive accumulation” by Marxists. At the same time that elites enjoy the fruits of native land and African labor, the progeny of natives and Africans experience ethnocide in which they are forced to lose their sense of culture and adopt that of the colonial master (“enforces a whole different nature”). This situation is the primary reason for “ill behavior” on the part of the colonized, which includes violence and crime.

FANONIAN DECOLONIZATION AND SICKSIDE VIOLENCE

A central truism of academic studies and popular writing on hip-hop is that it is hypermasculine, misogynist, and violent. Feminist scholars, especially, lament the machismo and sexism found in the lyrics and videos of rap music (hooks 1994a, 2003; McFarland 2008a; Rivera 2003; Rose 1994, 1990; Sharpley-Whiting 2007). While there is plenty of evidence to support this argument, the academic community does itself a disservice if it does not examine the causes of this violence. Perhaps it is easy to be critical and angry about working- and underclass male behavior. Perhaps the distance from the violence found in inner-city streets, and the dehumanization experienced daily by working-class men of color in barrios and ghettos draws our attention away from the racist and capitalist roots of hypermasculine violence and toward its symptoms. Perhaps it is easier to point to the misogynist transgressions of some of the most disempowered in our society than to do the hard work of deconstructing the racism and sexism inherent in capitalism and colonialism. Fortunately, street-hoppers do the

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work for us. Much of their work expresses ugly sexism and violence. However, they also theorize their violence by placing it in the context of capitalism and colonialism. Their views put a contemporary spin on Frantz Fanon’s work. In The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon (2000, 52) examines the “freedom dreams” of the colonized: “The first thing the native learns is to stay in his place, and not to go beyond certain limits. This is why the dreams of the native are always of muscular prowess; his dreams are of action and of aggression.” The native in a colonial situation, like the street-hopper, has experienced the violence of his subordinated existence. He has felt that jackboot of the police and military. He knows that “the agents of government speak the language of pure force” (38). Furthermore, he has seen how the settler or the agent of colonialism lives free and prosperous. Fanon’s comparison of the settler’s town with the native’s town could easily describe race and class relations from the perspective of the Sickside. He explains: The settlers’ town is a strongly built town, all made of stone and steel. It is a brightly lit town; the streets are covered with asphalt, and the garbage cans swallow all leavings, unseen, unknown and hardly thought about. . . . The settler’s town is a well-fed town, an easygoing town; its belly is always full of good things. The settlers’ town is a town of white people, of foreigners. The town belonging to the colonized people, or at least the native town, the Negro village, the medina, the reservation, is a place of ill fame, peopled by men of evil repute. . . . It is a world without spaciousness; men live there on top of each other, and their huts are Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

built one on top of the other. The native town is a hungry town, starved of bread, of meat, of shoes, of coal, of light. The native town is a crouching village, a town on its knees. (39)

The seemingly endless critique of barrioization found in the lyrics of Chicano emcees testifies to the commonalities between Fanon’s native town and Chican@ barrios. If you replaced native town with poor barrio, you have a fairly accurate account of the environs of which Chicano emcees rap. The subordinated, working-class Chican@ youth, like the colonized native, witnesses and experiences the inequality described by Fanon and street-hop artists. The street-hop artist recognizes the injustice of the arrangement and covets the lifestyle of the dominant group. This covetousness often appears in rap lyrics as extreme materialism, and at other times anger, resentment, and violence. Fanon’s analysis of the native attitude in the face of glaring inequality describes the psychology that can result from barrioization: “The look that the native turns on the settler’s town is a look of lust, a look of envy; it expresses his dreams of possession—all manner of possession: to sit at the settler’s table, to sleep in the settler’s bed, with his wife if possible . . . there is no native who does not dream at least once a day of setting himself up in the settler’s place” (39).

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To the colonized, subordinated ethnic, the prosperity and freedom of the colonizer or settler has resulted from his monopoly over violence through control of government and the economy. If not for his superior military technology and “legitimate violence” maintained by bourgeois state law, the colonial/racist inequality between the colonizer and the colonized, or the Chican@ street-hopper and the white middle class would not exist. As Fanon explains, the difference between “colonization and decolonization [is] simply a question of relative strength” (61). Once the native or street-hopper recognizes the violence of the colonial situation and has decided to “embody history,” he will be willing to use all means available, especially violence, to create a new world. It becomes “clear to him that this narrow world, strewn with prohibitions, can only be called into question by absolute violence” (37). This perspective is echoed by revolutionary anarchists who recognize that the ruling elites engaged in extreme violence to expropriate the lands and resources that they use to exploit the working classes. Therefore, violence is required to overthrow the rulers and expropriate their lands for distribution to the working classes, who with their labor have created all the wealth enjoyed by the rich (Bakunin 2011; Bufe and Verter 2005). In “#1 Target” (Sick Symphonies 2005) Crow offers this Fanonian and anarchist street-hop analysis of violence by barrioized youth: We are not natural born sinners. It’s the grief you give us. It’s enough not to trust those running the law Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

so we’re coming for y’all. Never running it’s your call to duty. What you doing? Handcuff and shoot me? Excuse me if I shoot you first. You cursed me with a life expectancy of 23 as you can see, I missed it and I’m still optimistic. I’m a soldier that’s sadistic with a different way of thinking.

Here the artist claims that the violent environs of the barrio cause the violent behavior of some Chican@ street youth. He argues that street kids are not naturally violent, but as victims of racism and poverty they often strike back at those whom they believe to be their oppressors. Since they cannot trust the government or corporations (“those running the law”), they fight against colonizers and colonial agents (“we’re coming for y’all”). Victimized by the enforcers of capital, police agents, they claim a right

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to shoot first before they are fired upon. Barrio lore and history16 have taught these young men that the police are not charged with serving and protecting them, but, on the contrary, are agents of oppression who will kill them. These conditions have created someone who is potentially violent with a value system that differs from those professed by “mainstream America.” As Malcolm X writes in By Any Means Necessary (1992, 119), “the oppressed never uses the same yardstick as the oppressor.”17 The colonized and oppressed develop a different mechanism for measuring morality. Thus, Sick Symphonies explains that barrioization has created “a soldier that’s sadistic with a different way of thinking.” However, in an interesting turn, they rap that even though they have been cursed with a short life expectancy, they have overcome and remain optimistic about their future. “Mainstream America” misunderstands and dismisses the barrio youth examined in street hop. They see a brown man donning tattoos, shaved haircuts, and hip-hop-style clothing as a threat. The brown man criminalized since at least 1848 represents the fear of foreigners, the xenophobia inherent in the mythos of U.S. exceptionalism and “American” values. And so it must be in order to maintain the colonial relationship between the mostly white power elite and the Chican@/ Mexican@ working class. This is evident in the title “#1 Target.” Street-hop youth of color are the number one target of U.S. scapegoating. Fears concerning our declining standards of living, the threat of violent criminality and “terrorism,” and the loss of U.S. status as the premier superpower are projected onto the easiest of targets. Black and Chican@/Mexican@ men have been systematically denied the opportunity to represent themselves, to tell their stories, and thus have become the objects of representation. The nightly news, television shows, and movies tell “America” that their problems stem from the brown invasion of immigrants and the black and Chicano criminal. Images of brown, tattooed men have become synonymous with threat, criminality, and problem. Sick Symphonies explains further: “The Man can’t understand the ink and needle, / the hair cut to zero and the culture of my people. / It should be apparent why we’re not caring. / We barely doing better than our parents; / a generation that feels the desperation” (“#1 Target”). This desperate generation has been conditioned, in many respects, to care for themselves at the expense of others. Since they see little chance of doing well through legitimate means, they engage in illicit entrepreneurial activity and violence. The desperate situation they have been put in requires desperate action. Astutely, they observe that without financial power, they must turn to physical power to redeem their manhood and humanity. Their conditions cause them to see the world in stark terms—starker than most. Yet, theirs may be a more accurate analysis of a capitalist world marked by racism and extreme poverty. They, perhaps more honestly than many artists, express the nature of masculinity as violence, and that of capitalism as violence and theft.

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Street-hop artists often recognize the relationship between capitalism and violence. They know that they are subordinated, not due to any cultural or biological deficiency but because they do not have guns or the law that would legitimate violence. They know that the power to be fully human and to fully participate in the polity as political subjects requires physical and financial power (Thompson 2010). They recognize the interrelatedness of these two types of power in a capitalist society. While most have probably not read Engels’s Anti-Duhring (who has?), they seem to arrive at the same conclusion as this important critic of capitalism, who writes: Violence is not a simple act of will, but needs for its realization certain very concrete preliminary conditions, and in particular the implements of violence; and the more highly developed of these implements will carry the day against primitive ones. . . . To put it briefly, the triumph of violence depends upon the production of armaments, and this in its turn depends on production in general, and thus . . . on economic strength, on the economy of the State, and in the last resort on the material means which that violence

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commands. (qtd. in Fanon 2000, 64)

In “Black Hole,” Sick Jacken uses the language of street hop to make a similar point. He first describes the barrioization in which he and others exist: “In the slums / where the young hold guns / and pick crumbs / from the trickle-down funds / that’s laid out for us.” He argues that the dominant economic philosophy of supply-side economics (“trickle-down”) leaves only crumbs that the wealthy drop to the working classes. This situation of violence and poverty is the “black hole” of the title. As a result of “living lost in the black hole,” many turn to violence as they are told through numerous channels that this is the pathway to resources, power, and dignity. In the second verse of the song, Cynic explains that “the best example is this man that we all call President. / Everything is handled with terror and nuclear weapons.” Through extreme levels of violence, the federal government and ruling classes maintain power. Of course, the state has proclaimed itself to be the sole legitimate user of violence. This point is recognized by Sick Jacken in the chorus: “The leader of my country spends all his money on his army / and when I did the same on my street he came down on me. / I don’t know what to do about it anymore. / I just keep on livin’ lost in the black hole.” Those living in the Sickside are lost. They want to claim their rightful place as human beings, yet power will not allow them the means, and since they have little money and resources, they are unable to procure the necessary armaments to struggle for their humanity. On the other hand, they recognize the terms established in a capitalist economy and are able to criticize the government’s “legitimate” use of force. Now that the colonized street youth have seen through elite propaganda

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(now that he is “hip to the jive”), they begin to strive for dignity. Like the colonized of Fanon’s time, he, “at the moment he realizes his humanity, . . . begins to sharpen the weapons with which he will secure its victory” (Fanon 2000, 43). Once the ruling classes are seen as an illegitimate authority and the working classes develop a class consciousness, then workers develop the attitude of disrespect and the right to rebel necessary to fight for their rights or for a new society (McKay 2007; Bufe and Verter 2005). While Fanon, Malcolm X, Frederick Douglass, Flores Magón, and Sickside soldiers can see the legitimacy of violence in order to secure freedom and dignity for the colonized, racialized, and subordinated, the problem is that the agency that the colonized often find through violence makes targets out of women and fellow colonized men. More often than not, the colonized, barrioized subject turns his violence on those in his immediate environs and not on the agents of his oppression. Given what we know about the psychology of the colonized from Fanon’s investigations, this pathological violence should not surprise us. Concerning fratricide he writes: The colonized man will first manifest his aggressiveness which has been deposited in his bones against his own people. This is the period when the niggers beat each other up, and the police and magistrates do not know which way to turn when faced with the astonishing waves of crime in North Africa. . . . The native’s muscular tension finds outlet regularly in bloodthirsty explosions—in tribal warfare, in feuds between sects, and Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

in quarrels between individuals. . . . you will see the native reaching for his knife at the slightest hostile or aggressive glance cast on him by another native; for the last resort of the native is to defend his personality vis-à-vis his brother. . . . All these patterns of conduct are those of the death reflex when faced with danger, a suicidal behavior which proves to the settler (whose existence and domination is by them all the more justified) that these men are not reasonable human beings. (Fanon 2000, 52, 54)

Hip-hop’s violent lyrics prove to the critics that this is not “reasonable” music made by “reasonable” young men, and justifies their calls for crackdowns on youth, including criminal justice legislation and denying resources for improving the lives of barrio youth. Fanon’s astute analysis helps explain the high levels of gang violence since the 1980s (Hayden 2006)—what many lament as brown-on-brown or blackon-black violence. It also explains the fratricide and violence towards women often examined in rap lyrics.18 The desire for more, for a just and dignified life, leads to misplaced violence. The very idea of competition in a capitalist society causes some in the working classes to turn on each other. Flores Magón expresses this problem in “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” (Bufe and Verter 2005, 194–95), writing:

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The struggle for life, even though it’s shameful to admit it, reveals in the human species the same brutal and wild characteristics as in the lower animals. As long as the human species isn’t steeped in solidarity and mutual aid, everyone will go in search of bread in competition with others. . . . The poor man, for his part, is the enemy of his equally poor brothers. The poor man sees an enemy in those he comes near to, perhaps because they might rent themselves to the rich for a lower price than he would.

Violence outside of an organized community in resistance becomes reactionary (Fanon 2000, 59). It only reinforces the oppression found in barrios and justifies police and governmental repression. It follows that a true politics of decolonization requires organization beyond the gang level.

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“STREETS UP”: A CALL TO ACTION

Street-hoppers such as Psycho Realm and Krazy Race recognize the legitimate anger and desperation of colonized Chicano street youth. While they often lament the fratricidal violence that can consume their communities, they know that power will not stop the domination without violent resistance. They follow in the intellectual footsteps of Frederick Douglas (Takaki 1993), Frantz Fanon, Malcolm X, and Flores Magón, whose experience and reading of history shows that power gives up nothing willingly. Examining the situation of colonized Africa in the middle part of the twentieth century, Fanon writes that colonialism is violence and will yield only to violence (2000, 61). Frederick Douglass’s experiences of slavery taught him that the slavemaster was too morally insensitive to understand anything but violence (Takaki 1993). Malcolm X (1992) noted that violence was necessary to end the oppression of black people in the 1950s and 1960s. He wrote that “If you take up arms, you’ll end it. But if you sit around and wait for the one who’s in power to make up his mind that he should end it, you’ll be waiting a long time” (182). Like Fanon, he argued that nonviolence was a trick created by the ruling classes to keep the colonized “from being able to defend himself ” (114). Flores Magón, like other anarchists, believed in the necessity of meeting the violence of the bourgeoisie with working-class revolutionary violence. In “Preaching Peace Is a Crime” (Bufe and Verter 2005, 153), he writes that “To preach peace when the tyrant imposes his will and humiliates us; when the rich extort us to the extent of turning us into slaves; when the government big business, and the church kill all aspiration and all hope; to preach peace under such circumstances is cowardly, vile, criminal. Peace in chains is an affront that should be refused.” Again echoing the revolutionary Left, street-hoppers’ analysis of their situation and history of oppressed peoples leads them to conclude that they must turn

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street-youth anger into an organized force for change. As Sick Jacken mentions in “The Sickside” from Stray Bullets (2009), they “gotta turn these kids to a sickside mind,” which includes using their energies to organize for fundamental change of our society instead of turning on each other and committing street-level crime. Thief Sicario argues that “change doesn’t happen through no ballot box.” Krazy Race dedicates a whole album to the theme of social change, choosing to name his 2006 classic The Movement: Strength in Numbers. On “Streets Up,” Sick Jacken and Sick Symphonies argue that their music can unite the impoverished of the Sickside to create the positive social change necessary to provide equality and dignity to barrioized youth. These guns don’t satisfy my thirst for revolution. / I take this music and use it to start a real movement. / This is that broken concrete street poetry in rhyme form / talkin’ about city blocks we die for. / You need to follow these lines. / Here some more lines to fuck up your mind. / It’s like rhymes on attack close quarter combat. / This is your moment when the truth is spoken / done with rage spit in the studio and performed on stage. / They’re trying to keep us caged in these ghettos and projects. / The more oppression on the streets the more unsettled the mob gets. / We make progress if we

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unite in this conquest.

Sick Symphonies argues for the power of words, rhyme, and beats to move people. They hope that their “broken concrete street poetry” can influence barrioized street youth to unite. This is their truth based on their experience “caged in these ghettos and projects.” To them, as to Fanon, it is no mystery why there is fratricidal violence in barrios. It is due to oppression. The more oppression there is, the more anxious and violent barrioized youth get. Their critique of barrioization ends with a call to unity. The chorus says: “If these neighborhoods had peace treaties (it’s streets up) / we’d be the biggest gang on earth really (it’s streets up) / uniting together to take over these streets (it’s streets up) / 9,300 cops can’t stop 500,000 deep.” In essence, if the gangs would stop turning their guns on each other and develop peace treaties, then all of the dispossessed youth could unite and take control of their destinies through revolutionary action as opposed to being victimized and barrioized. The theme of uniting barrioized youth is common among street-hop artists; revolutionary working-class organizations call the same idea “solidarity.”19 Krazy Race’s classic song “Up to Us,” from the compilation The Never Ending Battle (2003), addresses fratricidal violence in the barrios. He laments that the majority of the violence occurring in barrios is brown-on-brown violence. In other words, barrioized youth turn their anger on one another instead of the causes of their oppression. He ends the song pleading, “my last words, my people, unite and rise.”

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Street-hop artists’ call to unity goes beyond cultural nationalism. They often address all people who are oppressed by racism and colonialism. Chicano emcees sometimes see impoverished blacks and others as their people with whom they wish to unite. On “Black and Brown Army” from Stray Bullets (2009), Sick Jacken and Chace Infinite urge the end of animosity between blacks and Chican@s. Jacken sees a deep division between these two oppressed groups and seeks a better understanding of our society that has created it. In part, he blames the education system, rapping: “We don’t get it. It’s too much so the eses stay blastin’ them. / I ain’t revolutionary, man. It’s common sense. / We don’t get this shit in schools, though, in our defense.” Jacken addresses the wars between black and brown street youth and convicts, saying that Chicanos (“eses”) fight with (“stay blastin’”) blacks (“them”) because they don’t understand how racism undermines cross-racial unity and is used by the ruling class as a divide-and-conquer strategy. Even though it should be “common sense” that blacks and Chican@s are in the same boat vis-à-vis the dominant power structure, they don’t understand, because they are not taught such things in schools. So, it is up to street-hop artists to “school” barrioized youth. Jacken assumes the role of teacher and preacher as he raps: “Psycho preach, / boulevard speech, / bullets with long reach. / [I] speak from the heart / [and] hit the block with what my songs teach.” His and Chace Infinite’s goal is to use their “boulevard speech,” their “bullets,” to reach the kids on the block. Theirs is not a party music or a music made to sell millions of units in the pop-culture industry, but has a mission to improve the conditions of their people. In the chorus, they call for the development of an army to end oppression and fulfill their people’s proper place in the social order. They rap together: “Brown and Black army! You know the drill. / Unite the whole city and reveal the prophecy fulfilled.” Street-hop artists’ challenge to power through using their music to call for organized resistance to capitalism, racism, and colonialism leads to a redefinition of themselves as political subjects, as active human beings. They exemplify Arteaga’s (1997, 10) argument that “Chicano identity is constructed in defiance of the simple and absolute discretion of the state.” From the Sickside, they begin to rethink “American” values, their place in the U.S. social order, and the very definition of “America.”

Amerika/America

Often in the imaginary of “America,” Mexicans/Chican@s do not exist. What and who are American, what constitutes American values, and other such questions leave out people of Mexican descent, indigenous people, and people of African descent. Moreover, the national image of the United States often does not match historical

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facts. Lawrence Davidson (2010), writing in CounterPunch about U.S. foreign policy during the twenty-first century, explains that The United States, like Great Britain in the 19th century, simultaneously acts like an imperial power and cultivates a national image as the world’s prime purveyor of good government, stability and progress. However, history has taught us that a nation cannot be both of these things at once. . . . [The nation has developed a] thought collective—groupthink on a national level. Within the thought collective self-deception and rationalization become high arts and soon both the leaders and the followers no longer notice the underlying hypocrisy. It also helps that most of the public is indifferent toward the world beyond their local sphere. Indifference results in ignorance and the void left by ignorance is readily filled with manipulative misinformation. Nor do the indifferent care about government secrecy on subjects that appear to have no relevance

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to their daily lives.

While the national myths of the United States and the elites’ ability to cover its hypocrisy by sheer weight of its control over ideological state apparatuses such as media, education, book and magazine publishing, and national rituals such as parades and holidays, Chicano street-hop artists see through the contradictions of capitalism and the state. Due to their subject positions as racialized Others and the multiracial, international nature of hip-hop culture, Chican@ street-hoppers exist outside of the “thought collective.” Thus, Chican@ street-hop emcees are able to criticize the concept of “America.” Recent songs from Thief Sicario, Kemo the Blaxican, and Stomper illustrate the manner in which Chican@ street hoppers and working-class youth see the United States and their place in it.

MYTH AND IDENTITY IN “AMERIKA”20

Many of the myths told about the United States and its people result from a retelling of certain stories from the perspective of elites and upper classes. National-origin myths and stories of “American” heroism—such as the American Revolution, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, World War II, and Vietnam—encourage views of U.S. history and its people as beneficent, strong, democratic, inclusive, and inherently good. Very little of the official history told in social-science class; replayed at Thanksgiving, the Fourth of July, and Memorial Day; and sung in “My Country ’Tis of Thee” and the National Anthem complicates these utopian, idyllic tales of our history and identity. Most aspects of formal education and national culture drive home the message of “America the Good” and fail to examine the contradiction, hypocrisy, and violence that is a central part of the story. This is not simple omission

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or difference in perspective between the ruling classes, white American population, and colonized subjects. This understanding, this mythology, is required if the balance of power between the elite and the rest of the citizenry is to be maintained. Or as Ball (2011, 25) astutely asserts: “The very sanity and preservation of the psyche of empire requires established mythology both of empire and its subjects.” There are but a few places today where we can access a different, much more complex view of ourselves as colonized, racialized subjects and working class. Hiphop offers such a view. “Amerika” (2007), the song and video from Thief Sicario’s first compact disc, Education of a Felon, takes a look at “American” identity from a poor, inner-city, streetwise perspective.21 The song, like much of the music from Realizm Rekords, challenges our taken-for-granted notions of U.S. history and “American” identity. Because Thief and dozens of other Chicano rappers are dark-skinned, of Mexican descent, and from the inner-city working class, they see the United States differently than white Americans and the middle and upper classes do. They recognize that national history leaves little room for a critique from the marginalized in U.S. society. Much of U.S. history shows them as the disempowered, the attacked, the oppressed, the rebel, and the poor. Today, barrios and other working-class communities feel the brunt of bad governmental policy and racism. “Amerika” points out the hypocrisy and contradiction in the United States. Imagining himself as “Amerika,” Thief raps: I am Amerika. I’m the contradiction. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

I’m the system, the assailant, and his victim. I am Amerika, land of lies and deceit where if you can’t cheat, you’re forced to meet defeat.

Instead of the stories of Honest Abe Lincoln and young George Washington not being able to tell a lie, Thief sees lying and deceitfulness as characteristic of our country. Further addressing contradictions, Thief raps: I’m the Jew that changed his name to join the Nazis. I’m the Mexican immigrant workin’ for border patrol, the NRA member that supports gun control. I’m the Hollywood sign, the hooker, the pimp, the Sureño, the Latin King, the Blood, the Crip. I’m the Statue of Liberty, Sitting Bull and Custer, the radical feminist, on the cover of Hustler. I am Amerika. I’m Capone and Ness, the homophobe, at home in a dress.

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Thief ’s lyrical flow and pointed commentary on the complexity of our country are indicative of the best of hip-hop. The musical production by Trafek is unique but familiar. It stays true to the hip-hop aesthetic of symphonically layering multiple musical sounds; sampling parts of other musical pieces, and rearranging and reinterpreting them to make something new; and emphasizing bass, drum, and rhythm.22 At the same time, Trafek’s music is original—another cornerstone of hip-hop aesthetics. His arrangements and beats would be familiar to hip-hop headz, yet no one would say that he bit (stole) someone else’s music or style. The video displays a hip-hop aesthetic as well. It is a patchwork of photo stills related to the lyrical content. It is gritty and brave, as like the lyrics, it does not shy away from controversial subjects, including racism, violence, the death penalty, and political prisoners in U.S. jails. The imagery shocks and awakens; stills of familiar U.S. historical and pop-cultural characters are newly positioned to aid in a rethinking of “Amerika” and “Amerikans.” Unlike most rap music videos, with the rapper assuming most of the visual space, Thief ’s image is absent from the “Amerika” video. He instead highlights us all: the good, the bad, the ugly, the profane, and the beautiful. Most of all, Thief ’s lyrics and images disabuse us of the notion that America is a white, Christian, male nation. It is, as he raps, “the name of two entire continents.” Images of black, native, Chican@, and other people and cultural products and symbols (Aztec and Mayan pyramids, for example) help us recognize that “Amerika” is not just the whites and the ruling class of the United States, but includes all the inhabitants from Canada to Tierra del Fuego. Unlike the corporate rap music and videos that dominate the airwaves and video music shows, “Amerika” does not rely on misogyny and greed for its imagery. The most common images in corporate rap are scantily clad, gyrating women and black men showing off the cars and jewelry that is their bounty for selling minstrel-like images of themselves to “American” consumers. Thief stays away from what Tricia Rose in The Hip Hop Wars (2008) calls the “gangsta-pimp-ho trinity” of corporate rap. He shows us a diverse range of personages that make up America. He causes us to think about ourselves in deeper ways than what we are used to in school, on TV, and in corporate rap music. He asks us to see ourselves as more than just “America the Good,” and more than just greedy, individualistic predators. We are all this and more. Additionally, Thief wants to make sure that the marginalized, the poor, and the racialized are understood as part of Amerika. He begins the song with references to Mexican people’s indigeneity. His vision of America begins with the native Mexican and pre-Columbian ancestors of today’s Chican@/Mexican. “I’m Anahuac, the One World, the Aztec dancer.” Anahuac is the name that the Mexica/Aztec gave to America. Instead of starting our story with European “pilgrims,” Thief begins our history and identity with native peoples. He reinforces his view that the history of the Americas begins with natives, rapping: “I’m the illegal immigrant, at the same

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time the native / the rightful heir to this land, livin’ on a reservation.” Amerika is the first people who are arguably the rightful owners or stewards of much of U.S. real estate, and who are imprisoned and impoverished, mostly on reservations. Amerika, taking the long historical view that Thief does in this song, is also the “illegal” Mexican and other immigrants whose history in this region is ancient. They are not recent invaders, as much anti-immigrant rhetoric would have us believe, but rightful heirs to a good deal of U.S. territory, including most of the Southwestern part of our country. Continuing his commentary on the racial makeup of our country, Thief says later: “I am Amerika, the oppressed internal nations, / the anarchist out to destroy civilization. / Guadalupe Hidalgo, forty acres and a mule, / the people who built pyramids with primitive tools. / I am Amerika, the Mayan lord, the Anasazi.” Here, Thief claims “Amerika” and “Amerikan” identity for native people (“oppressed internal nations”), Mexicans (“Guadalupe Hidalgo,” “the people who built pyramids . . . the Mayan lord, the Anasazi”), and blacks (“forty acres and a mule”). At the same time, he comments upon the deceitfulness of those in power in the United States as he mentions the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo (which ended the U.S. war with Mexico and ceded Mexico’s resource-rich northern territories, including Texas and California) and the end of the Civil War promise to black people of an opportunity to begin a decent life with “forty acres and a mule.” Unfortunately he, like so many others, misunderstands and misrepresents anarchists as simply out for violence and disorder. Almost all anarchists recognize the need for human cooperation and organization with communities, groups, and societies. They believe that peace and order can only be accomplished through democratic, anti-authoritarian, autonomous, and highly organized federations of communities. Moreover, anarchists theorize that the individual freedom that street-hoppers and many others see as lacking in our contemporary racist, capitalist society can only be attained and expressed in relationships with others (Bakunin 2005a and 2011; Kropotkin 2006; McKay 2007). Thief presents a class critique. To Thief, Amerika is the oft-abused and exploited worker and poor. Amerika is “the factory worker, the welfare recipient.” Amerika includes those who because of poverty have led a life of crime, such as gang members (“the Sureño, the Latin King, the Blood, the Crip”) and the incarcerated (those with a “third strike for getting caught with an herb [marijuana] pipe”). Amerika includes immigrant workers trying to feed their families. Those “illegals” simply come to work, and at the same time have a positive impact on the local, regional, and national economy. Thief points out the irony and hypocrisy of a country that makes criminals out of entire groups of people (immigrants, and black and brown youth). He raps that Amerika is the “Land of the Free with the most prisoners on the entire earth.” His Amerika is not only the racially and economically oppressed. Amerika also consists of rebels who resist the economic and ideological domination imposed on

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us by the ruling class. While we are the poor, the incarcerated, and the racialized, we also resist this status, and resist our invisibility in official U.S. history, mythology, and identity. We are “Amerika, the riot starter, the looter / the hacker breakin’ through to Pentagon computers. / I’m Pancho Villa, Che Guevara, Emiliano Zapata, / George Washington, Lincoln, and revolutionaries locked up.”

AMERIKA FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF AZTLÁN

Chican@ nationalist rhetoric, especially the myth of Aztlán, provides a critique of the nation from the borderlands. Chican@ identity, constructed somewhere between citizenship and foreignness and Mexico and the United States, provides unique opportunities to analyze Amerika. Like Thief ’s, Stomper’s 2010 video and song “Aztlán Is the Truth”23 posits an alternative way to view our country. Through lyrics steeped heavily in Chican@ nationalist rhetoric, and tinged with gangsterisms and video images of U.S. military and police atrocities and Chican@ resistance, Stomper paints a picture of American history from a Chican@ street-hop perspective. Like Thief and many hip-hop artists, Stomper wants to reeducate a populace that has been miseducated by our school systems. He begins: It’s time I told you all a story about the land that we live in. It’s up to us to make a difference start educating our children. Time to take a deeper look Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

into these history books. We’ve been brainwashed from this system of politicians and crooks. How can you see the bigger picture [when they’ve] got you walkin’ around blind? Just take a look and you gonna find they’re trying to program your mind. Everything you ever learned about our country is lies.

Over images of the Chican@ Movement, including Brown Beret marches and the Chicano Moratorium Against the Vietnam War and police violence against Chican@s, Stomper tells an alternative history of Amerika and of people of Mexican descent in the United States. U.S. history from the perspective of Aztlán involves theft of native land and culture, genocide, misinformation regarding Chican@ identity and history, and deceit. Stomper raps: Open your eyes watch them divide and conquer us for thousands of years. / Separate us from our peers manipulate us with fear. / Robbed us all of our identity so we don’t know

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the truth / and tried to cover any clues of our indigenous roots. / It’s time to educate ourselves / try to unite so we rise. / A modern day apocalypse to kill our own kind. / It’s called genocide, homie. / Another sign of the times. / Killed and slaughtered off our tribes, / stripped our families’ pride, enslaved us and never gave us any kind of respect, / stole our land and spread famine, brought us nothing but death. . . . They’ll keep on tellin’ you this is the home of the brave. / You better check your fuckin’ books. / It’s the home of the slave. / Land of the free but the shit’s more like the land of disease, land of rape, mass murder, discrimination and greed, economic corruption, plot strategic inflation, system of federal banks, a nation for the Masons.

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Here Stomper challenges many of the sacred, taken-for-granted assumptions of Amerika, the land of the free and the home of the brave. This cliché has become a truism in official history books. Stomper isn’t fooled, however. He sees Amerika differently. According to him, it is a land of violence, murder, corruption, and greed. It is the home of the slave and the slaver. Arguing against democracy and freedom as pillars of the U.S. system, Stomper sees America as controlled by an elite system of banks and shadowy organizations such as the Masons. This system has hidden the truth about indigenous, Chican@, and other subordinated peoples. Stomper wants to uncover the truth for his listeners: mostly young, barrioized men. Instead of being inferior, Chican@s are great. They come from a long line of highly developed civilizations and peoples knowledgeable in astronomy, science, and spirituality. Stomper raps: They called us savage. / We were far more deeper than that. / Worshipped the universe and god. / Mexica, Mayan descent, Olmec / Nican Tlaca, the true indigenous man. / The Mayan built pyramids that let them travel through time / 1221–2012 is the end of our rhyme. / True masters of the mind, naturally one with the earth.

Stomper claims a lineage for Chican@s that is an alternative to the one most often seen and heard on the nightly news and in history textbooks. The news and the culture industries would have us believe that Chican@s are foreigners, criminal illegal aliens, unintelligent and poor. They are criminal gangbangers and welfare-receiving single mothers. According to Stomper and many other Chican@ emcees, especially those who take on an indigenous or Mexica identity, “we are far more deeper than that.” The history of people of Mexican descent in the United States is full of amazing accomplishments. Yet, few know this. For Amerika, they remain “savage.”24 This label leads to and justifies inequality and discrimination—the latest of which is the new nativist anti-immigrant rhetoric.

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ANTI-IMMIGRANT RHETORIC AND THE DEATH OF AMERIKA

In “That’s When She Died” (2010), Kemo the Blaxican offers a critique of our country similar to that of Thief Sicario. He begins his song with samples of news reports and commentary on immigration and undocumented immigrants. In the first verse, Kemo pleads with America. You runnin’ wild and when I question it you label me a radical hardcore. America, I’ve been devoted, you see. You painted me a picture beautiful of hopes and dreams. Promised Land with a government that’s not trusting. . . . But you got secrets and you in love with the power so you been sleepin’ with money filthy almighty dollar. You betrayed me. Everything was a lie.

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And we’ve got children and you poisoned they mind.

Kemo proclaims his love for his land, but feels betrayed because the reality of Amerika does not live up to the ideal of America. The beautiful hopes and dreams promised in the American Dream have become governments without legitimacy, and an obsession with money and a life based on things. Moreover, the media, popular culture, educational environments, and other socializing institutions “poison” children’s minds through promoting an ethic of overconsumption and obsession with money.25 His rejection of everything he learned about the ideal America earns him a label of threat and danger. In the second verse he describes how his experience with “American” justice brings him to concientización—Paolo Freire’s term for a person developing a consciousness about their political subjectivity in relation to the state and other entities (2000). Describing this process, Kemo raps: From the first time I laid eyes on you There you stood beautiful in that red, white, blue. I loved everything about you, accepted your imperfections. Methodically brain-washed, I asked no questions. My teachers taught me everything from books you approved. “Melting pot,” “you loved us all,” but lessons were half truths. Blinded by my ignorance believing everything you told me Everything the slanted media showed me. The mood has shifted to one of despair, distrust, bitterness and rage fill the air cuz you stop, undermined my constitutional rights.

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Imposing your agenda. We’re the patriots you fight. . . . I speak with a Southern accent beyond Califas Mexican American, Afro-Americano, Blaxicano, Cien porcento, no more keeping it calmao.

As a young person, Kemo was mesmerized by the ideal and image of America, beautiful in “red, white, blue.” Since the image was presented everywhere, he became “brainwashed” and didn’t ask questions. He was willing to overlook times when it did not live up to its image (“accepted your imperfections”). But later, through oppressive experiences with powerful institutions, Kemo began to question the image of America. He became angry and bitter after being denied rights. The verse ends with Kemo coming to racial and class consciousness, exclaiming his presence as a human and political subject who is now going to act in his own and his community’s best interests against power. He is not going to “keep it calmao”; he won’t be calm or obedient anymore. In the final verse of the song, Kemo describes some of the instances in which America has lost its way, and how he feels. I feel a pain in my chest to have to write you this song But what you doing to your people is wrong. Patriot Act, FEMA camps in the name of security. Your faultless values getting lost in obscurity. . . . Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Collapse of an empire, inevitable Filled with death romance something steady and slow. I’m not oblivious. I know our time will come But I love you so much so I lash with sharp tongue But it’s only in an effort try to get you to listen and for that you shouldn’t want be dead, shackled in prison. It’s a chessmatch, yes. But, tell me are we winning it?

Kemo is an artist who sees and experiences something worth commenting upon: an increasingly violent and unequal society that has lost its values. He speaks about Amerika’s problems in order to get Amerika to listen. Instead, power deems him a problem and wants him dead or in prison. Kemo sums up his analysis about the decaying values of Amerika and its racism in the chorus. Since Amerika shows that it does not love its people of color and has chosen to oppress dissent and difference, it will die. The empire will collapse. He raps: “She told me that she don’t love me. That she don’t love me, anymore. That’s when she died.” In essence, the end of Amerikan prosperity has resulted from the way it has

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treated its citizens, especially people of color. The capitalist values of accumulation, commodification, individualism, and conflict have overcome democratic ideals such as freedom, equality, humanity, and community. Kemo, Thief, and Stomper offer a new way to see the social problems affecting the colonized and racialized, especially the barrioized. Theirs is an alterNative analysis of Amerika. Their analysis comes from an experience of struggle with the dominant colonial power in which they influence and alter the dominant culture for their benefit (Gaspar de Alba 1998). This alterNative analysis also provides important insight into the identities of many youth of Mexican descent in the United States. Their identity resists the criminalization of them offered by the dominant in “Amerikan” society and replaces it with an identity groomed in the alterNative Sickside.

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Conclusion

The best of Chicano street hop—including Thief, Psycho Realm, Krazy Race, Sicko Soldado, and Kemo—presents a working-class Chicano view of American society and identity. They argue forcefully for inclusion as full citizens, while aiming to create a more just, democratic, and equal society. They criticize imperialism, capitalism, and authoritarian politics. They criticize the nation’s institutions, such as the military, federal, state, and local governments; international institutions; secret societies; racist organizations and law; and other systems of authority that oppress the brown and poor. Songs such as “Illuminati,” “New World Games,” and “At War” by Krazy Race; and “Palace of Exile,” “cointelpro,” and “If It Happened to You” by Psycho Realm, exemplify the street-hop critique. At the same time, these artists represent or establish their own identity claims and self-definitions. In the aforementioned song “If It Happened to You,” Sick Symphonies raps: “I was full-blooded Mayan / now I don’t know who I am.” Almost all street-hop artists allude to the indigeneity discussed earlier as an important part of their identity. Like Mexica artists, Chicano street-hoppers’ resistant identity relies on reinterpretations or reversionings of indigenous culture and music (Keyes 2002). Their politics includes a critical view of the status quo from their standpoint as colonized subjects. As part of the subaltern, they insist on speaking through their culture and their music (Spivak 1988). While they borrow heavily from Marxist, anarchist, and anticolonial perspectives, the question remains whether their politics offers the development of a nonhierarchical, nonauthoritarian society. Can we consider street-hop emcees organic intellectuals or propagandists for a new revolutionary movement? From a revolutionary-anarchist perspective, the street-hop criticisms of government, race,

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and capitalism lack a full understanding of private property and authority, and do not offer a vision of a postrevolutionary society. According to anarchists, inequality under a capitalist economy stems from the violent appropriation of land and other resources by the bourgeoisie and the developing democratic state. The series of private enclosures created a proletariat that survives only by working for the owners of lands or private property (that which can be used to dominate another; McKay 2007). Owners extract profit through exploiting workers. It is thus the principle of private property itself that causes the greatest inequalities in our present world. The solution, according to anarchists such as Kropotkin and Flores Magón, is the expropriation of the lands and resources of the wealthy by the working class. Once the lands have been seized, workers will run the production and distribution of the products of their labor according to the needs of workers. Decision making in the anarchist society would be based on participatory democracy in small groups, communities, communes, and federations of free associations of workers and consumers. Street-hoppers and others of the ChHHN reflect anarchism with their rebellious stance toward irrational authority, such as the state and the ruling classes, that includes the willingness to engage in violent resistance. They recognize the nature of power as being violent, and understand that the inequality we see in our society is due to this violence. They even sometimes argue for the expropriation of land, especially that area called Aztlán. Their rhetorics do not present a vision for a new society, and thus are of limited utility for a revolutionary social movement. However, in dialogue with anticolonial, feminist, anarchist, and Marxist education and organizing, the lyrical power of street hop can contribute to a liberatory politics.

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PA RT 3

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Mexicanidad, Africanidad

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d L. K. Thomas

ct disc. Davi s (2007) compa Rich and Famou ce Records. So t No r fo t cover ar ad Silen Detail of inside axican) used courtesy of De e Bl (AKA Kemo th

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Multiracial Macho: Kemo the Blaxican’s Hip-Hop Masculinity

A Día de los Muertos calavera with the name Blaxican is the dominant image on the inside cover art for Kemo the Blaxican’s second CD, Not So Rich and Famous (2007). The artist reproduces the skull repeatedly as the central figure on a new one dollar bill. The skull looks a great deal like Kemo himself as photographed in the liner notes to the CD: afro, prominent eyes, and goatee. The dollar identifies and dates its production as DS 032007 (for Kemo’s production company, Dead Silence Records, March 2007). The dollar bill further comments on life as a working-class man of color. The left-hand top corner jokes, “This note will not pay your bail, rent or child support.” Additionally, acknowledging his racialized status as a black man in a society that has feared and fantasized about black male sexuality, “Big Buck” is printed on the ribbon below Kemo’s skull. This image of a multiracial skull visually comments upon a complicated masculine Mexicanidad. The skull, like Kemo’s music and lyrics, declares a racially and ethnically mixed new millennial mestizaje. Kemo represents a working-class, racialized Chicano—the struggling brown-skinned proletarian. This Chicano is dignified, flawed, smart, self-destructive, sexist, spiritual, creative, peaceful, violent, and loving. This Chicano is also phenotypically black, which means that he encounters n

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anti-black racism and stereotypes from many sectors of society. Kemo’s lyrics, music, and iconography present a complicated multiracial macho. My analysis of the music of Kemo and other emcees who identify and represent different aspects of the new millennial mestizaje is informed by a relational Chican@/ Ethnic Studies perspective that recognizes “that Chicana/o identity is deeply shaped by how Chicanos relate to other racialized groups” (Alvarez 2007, 55). Chican@/ Mexican@ hip-hop provides another example of “how Chicanos share moments of cultural exchange, conflict, and a myriad of social relationships with African Americans, Asian Americans, and other Latinos” (54). In so doing, Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop, and hip-hop more generally, contribute to the continuous mestizaje that characterizes Mexican culture, especially in the United States (Perez-Torres 2006). This “mestizaje of a different kind” is established on “interethnic alliances based on a shared and developing culture rather than on racial or national affiliation” (97). Kemo and his works embody new millennial mestizaje, or mestizaje of a different kind. His multiracial Mexicanidad allows him a unique experience expressed in his music and art. Paying particular attention to the gendered aspects of Kemo’s multiracial experience, we see how his identity as a biracial Mexican man, a Blaxican, informs his notions of honor, dignity, fatherhood, race, resistance, manhood, class, and Mexicanness.

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New Millenial Mestizaje/Mulataje and Masculine Performance

Kemo the Blaxican performs masculinity in an era of increasingly complex race relations, including large numbers of Latin@ immigrants living, working, and otherwise interacting with blacks; the high visibility of hip-hop in U.S. culture; war and terrorism; nativist rhetoric; economic downturns; environmental crises; increasing multiculturalism and attacks on diversity; the political disenfranchisement of people of color; and new racisms and sexisms. For many, the new millennium represents a new economic and political order. The economy of the new millennium is an extension of the past three decades of globalization, economic restructuring, and neoliberalism. More and more, our economy is based on the high-tech, computer, and service industries. Manufacturing jobs, those that allowed many people of color to become upwardly mobile, are increasingly limited. At the same time that high-paying, skilled work is being exported and devalued, the elites encourage undocumented immigration as an accumulation strategy. This tactic of capital increases the competition for low-wage jobs between people of color while it also brings blacks and Latin@s into closer proximity. A heightened rhetoric of immigrant criminality and their “theft” of citizen

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jobs, especially working-class black jobs, increases tensions between communities of color (Vaca 2004). At the same time, many citizens of color recognize the repression that immigrant workers experience, and that much of the anti-immigrant rhetoric is a divide-and-conquer strategy developed by the ruling class to undermine workingclass solidarity. For many young people, the past three decades of Latin@ immigration have realigned loyalties, friendships, and other types of relationships. This new millennial period has helped shape a new politics of the possible in which young people cross racial and ethnic boundaries and move toward undermining the racism of previous periods. Like zoot culture and jazz, lowriding, and social-movement organizing throughout the twentieth century, contemporary youth culture, especially hip-hop, signals a new possibility in race relations (Alvarez 2008, 2006; McFarland 2006a; Johnson 2002; Pulido 2006). Further, new millennial mestizaje/mulataje suggests something new about the way we conceive of Chican@/Mexican@ racial and ethnic identity. Typically, we understand people of Mexican descent to be a mixed-race people (mestizo). They are a mixture of Spanish and indigenous blood that is depicted in the iconic symbol of the tripartite face. This conceptualization of Mexican/Chican@ mestizaje privileges the Spanish-European and Aztec-indigenous aspects of their racial identity. Left out of this racial depiction of Mexican@s are the African, Arabic, Asian, and other indigenous peoples that have intermingled and intermarried to create what we know today to be people of Mexican descent in the United States. The conceptualization of Mexicans as la raza cósmica placed great importance on biological notions of race, thus reifying “race” and racial categorization as natural means to understand humanity. Like blood-quantum measures introduced by the Dawes Act of 1887, which established membership in indigenous nations within the United States, the concepts of la raza cósmica and mestizaje declared that Mexicans come from the blood of Aztecs (and other Mexican indigenous groups) and Spaniards. This meant also that those with other blood mixtures were somehow not fully Mexican. As a result of anti-black racism throughout the world as well as within Mexico, phenotypically black Mexicans were not considered Mexican, and blackness and black culture were relegated to the racial Other to be avoided and disdained. This narrow, biological notion of Mexicanidad has persisted into the twenty-first century. Recent efforts to relocate blackness in Mexican ethnic heritage and identity have begun to challenge the strict categorizations of Mexicans as Spanish-indigenous and everyone else as non-Mexican (Gleaton 2002; Hernandez Cuevas 2004; McFarland 2006a; Mexican Fine Arts Center Museum 2006; Dzidzienyo and Oboler 2005; Vaughn 2005). Therefore, I couple mulataje with the concept of mestizaje to signify the importance of African culture and tradition to Mexican culture. This new construct

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also allows a dialogue between Mexicans and blacks, and black and Chican@ studies to take place. Coupling mulataje and mestizaje points scholars to a framework for understanding black and Chican@ history and contemporary concerns that recognizes the relational nature of our experiences. The concept of new millennial mestizaje/mulataje further broadens how we conceptualize Mexicanidad. It disputes these narrow, biologically based notions of race and emphasizes the importance of cross-cultural influence: polyculturality. Following the lead of most social scientists, this concept rejects biologically determined, discrete categories called “races.” Race, instead, is understood to be a socially constructed idea. As such, racial categorization changes over time and space. How many races there are, and the criteria for determining one’s race are constructed by political, economic, and social forces. Therefore, in understanding Mexicanidad in the twenty-first century, new millennial mestizaje/mulataje foregrounds culture—especially cultural exchange, influence, and intermixing—and not blood quantum or other manners of understanding race biologically. Similarly, masculinity and gender are social constructs. Definitions of manhood, womanhood, and the proper way to be a man or woman are contested, challenged, and changed over time and across cultures and geographies. Men from subordinated groups often must struggle to change definitions of masculinity and claim a legitimate manhood for themselves. Masculinity for men of color in the United States is often performed and established through music or other artistic endeavors. The ideal man in the United States of America at the beginning of the new millennium has financial, sexual, and political power. The ideal or hegemonic man continues to be raced as white. In institutional sites, white upper- and middle-class men hold power and perform their masculinity. They wear power suits and drive powerful cars. They have access to coveted, beautiful women through their purchasing power. Denied access to institutions of power, men of color have few opportunities to perform a dominant masculinity. In order to claim a place at the privileged table of hegemonic masculinity, men of color must pursue other routes to manhood. Often a virility cult that overemphasizes sexual and physical power is pursued. Men of color who often own little more than their bodies (and this only at rare times away from work or government surveillance) use them to declare their manhood. Thus, performance becomes an important site of resisting subordination. Athletics and music are sites that men of color have carved out to self-represent as men. A masculinity that is at odds with racist notions of manhood while they strive to gain the masculine privilege held by their white counterparts can be found in the dance, music, writing, and other cultural products of men of color “from zoot suits to hip hop.”1 In other words, throughout the twentieth century, men of color have expressed their masculine identities through cultural expression.

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Hip-hop culture at the end of the twenty-first century and beginning of the new millennium is one site where men of color claim and redefine masculinity. It is also a space where the bodies and minds, the creativity and intelligence, the progressive politics and reactionary homophobia and misogyny of men of color mix and intermingle. Hip-hop is a site of new millennial mestizaje/mulataje.

Kemo’s Mulataje

Rap music performed by people of Mexican descent illustrates this new mulataje/ mestizaje. Hip-hop culture from which rap music comes has served as an interethnic contact zone where Chican@s/Mexican@s create culture, identity, and relationships alongside youth of other ethnicities (McFarland 2008a; Alvarez 2007). Writing about the music of the “Godfather of Chicano Rap” Kid Frost, Kun (qtd. in Rodríguez 2003, 110) argues that “If we go beyond the level of the text and lyric with Kid Frost and listen to the music he raps over, a much different and much more enabling critique results in which music manages to connect the East Los Angeles borderlands with the black diaspora via both 1990s rap and 1960s jazz.” Kemo the Blaxican places his identity squarely within the contact zone between people of color exemplified by hip-hop culture. On “La Receta” (2004) he raps: Ay cabrón! Ya llego el negrito de los angelitos. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

Where my people? Everybody come on echa un grito. I’ma do it till you feeling it. Ya te ha dicho. Watch me deliver the goods like corridos.

Kemo pronounces his arrival (“Ya llego el negrito de los angelitos”) with an exclamation (“ay cabrón!”) and invites everyone to give a traditional Mexican shout (“echa un grito”). Further, identifying himself with Mexican and Mexican American culture, he references the Mexico-U.S. border folk-music form corridos. In “La Receta,” Kemo identifies himself as a dark-skinned, biracial man (black Mexican), steeped in Los Angeles Mexican American culture. Throughout his career, Kemo has shown his deep connections to Mexican culture in the United States. Beginning with his first four compact discs with the group Delinquent Habits, Kemo repeatedly references Mexican popular culture, folk culture, film, historical figures, and religious icons in his music and lyrics. Importantly, he deftly code-switches between Spanish, English, black vernacular, and Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL)—a twenty-first-century multiracial Mexican

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Spanglish. Perez-Torres (2006, 102) writes that “Delinquent Habits makes it a point to highlight the hybrid nature of their cultural and racial identities. The group . . . employs codeswitching and bilingualism as both their linguistic and personal identities are brought to the fore.” Kemo’s discussion of his racial, ethnic, and working-class barrio identity represents a politics of refusal and affirmation (Alvarez 2007). Through his frequent references to his people, he affirms both their and his own existence. Because he identifies as black, Mexican/Chicano, Latino, and working-class, his people are numerous. They are raza (race; term of endearment for all Mexicans or Latin@s); “black and brown blends”; Latin@s (pa’ me gente latino in “La Receta”); Chican@s; blacks/African Americans (“6'2" Blaxican with the afro picked out” in “You Know,” 2007); working-class Chicano street youth (chavalos armadas / en estas calles in “Una Copa Más” [2004], with reference to his lowriders, goatee, and “tats” [tattoos] in “Think You’re Bad”). Kemo exhibits pride in his racial identity. He’s a “left coast Latino” (“LCL” 2007) who “spits so well” (raps well). He chants and celebrates his mixed-race heritage, repeating “black and brown brother” several times, and proclaiming that he is a good man and rapper (he is “half and half / I’m tight like a joint that’s mixed”). Additionally, as with much of Kemo’s previous musical production, “LCL” sonically and forcefully claims his mestizaje—African, indigenous, European. Adding Mexican touches to his musical aesthetic and message, Kemo strategically places brief Tijuana brass and mariachi-type horn riffs within a rhythm made up of hip-hop DJ record scratches, live funk drum grooves, electronic and computerized drum patterns, and an extremely low bass. Later, Kemo adds mariachi violin riffs, an understated and simple but effective melody, and computerized human voices singing one note repeatedly. The beats are African, the brass is Mexican, and the mix is urban hip-hop mestizaje. In “Ruido” (2004) he raps: “I can’t help every time I rhyme / I want to say that I’m proud of these people of mine.” Kemo is “a beautiful blend with a beautiful mind” (“You Know”). In “A Little Rain” (2007) he claims his royal background, rapping: “I come from the blood of kings on both sets [sides of his racial heritage].” Further, Kemo resists the dislocation and disenfranchisement of his people. In “Quiero Volar” (2004) he raps: “Planto semilla con micrófono. / Escribiendo en la tierra del azteca. / Somos de aquí el orgullo les molesta. / Tierra robada tierra prestada.” He wants to contribute (planto semilla con micrófono; I plant a seed with my microphone) to the pride (orgullo) of his people who are native to this land (somos de aquí; we are from here); the stolen land of indigenous people (tierra del azteca, tierra robada). Kemo identifies as a member of the Mexican community in the United States. Ethnically he is Mexican. His music; lyrical references to food, customs, celebrations, religious icons, and other Mexican traditions; and Chican@ language use

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all suggest his Mexican roots. His identity illustrates the diversity of the Mexican diasporic population (McFarland 2006a). He consistently refers to his blackness and his biraciality as black and Mexican, or Blaxican. For example, in “Silence is Dead” (2004) he refers to himself, rapping: “The blaxican, / once again, / hittin’ hard like an Aztec, / swift like a zulu.” He is also part of the working-class, urban youth in Los Angeles who grew up in conditions of postindustrialization. He is part of the Hip Hop Nation. He is also a man.

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Quién es más macho?

“Quién es más macho? (Who is more of a man?)” is a dicho that reflects a stereotyped conceptualization of the ideal Mexican man or macho as one who is physically strong and tough and who exhibits strength of character. The one who is more of a man, más macho, drinks hard, fights hard, and wears his emotions and pride in his Mexicanidad on his sleeve. He may or may not have many women, but he is more esteemed if he does (de la Mora 2006). Conversely, many of the Mexican and Mexican American men interviewed by sociologist Alfredo Mirandé (1997) exhibited very few of these traits. Their manhood was dignified, quiet, and peaceful. Mirandé presents a complex view of Mexican masculinity connoted in the word macho. In his interviews with Mexican men, he found that they had varied views of the word and what it meant to be a Mexican man. Mirandé (69–76) found negative and positive conceptions of the meaning of macho. Negative conceptions of macho include the following four themes: synthetic/exaggerated masculinity, male dominance/authoritarianism, violence/aggressiveness, and self-centeredness/egoismo. Many Xicana feminist (xicanista) examinations of Mexican/Chicano male behavior have identified a “male lineage” that celebrates the ideal Mexican male as dominant, aggressive, and patriarchal (Castillo 1994; Fregoso 1993; Herrera-Sobek 1990). Many of these characteristics mirror those of the hegemonic and hypermasculine male in U.S. society examined by men’s studies, feminists, and other scholars (hooks 1994a; Katz 1999; Kimmel 1987, 1994). The hegemonic U.S. male is powerful—financially, culturally, physically, and sexually. He avoids feminine characteristics and engages in displays of daring. He is a negative macho.2 Mirandé found an alternative to the negative, hypermasculine macho. The positive conceptions of macho include the following four themes: assertiveness/standing up for rights, responsibility/selflessness, general code of ethics, and sincerity/respect. The positive macho lives by “a code of ethics that stresses humility, honor, respect of oneself and others, and courage . . . being macho is not manifested by such outward qualities as physical strength and virility but by such inner qualities as personal

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integrity, commitment, loyalty, and, most importantly, strength of character” (Mirandé 1997, 67). Mirandé points to historical figures and fictional characters in film and music who are “muy hombres, men who stand up against class and racial oppression and the exploitation of the poor by the rich” (67). While this macho retains many hegemonic masculine characteristics, Mirandé finds that Mexican masculinity is not monolithic. His work illustrates complex and numerous Mexican masculine identities. Mirandé warns us not to assume that all or even most Mexican men subscribe to the negative conception of macho. Many Chicano and other rappers represent the ideal man as the hypermasculine macho seeking power. The most common conception of Chicano manhood in a 470-song sample was the violent man seeking to dominate others (McFarland 2008a). Additionally, Rodríguez (2003, 2009) finds that Chicano rap lyrics reinforce a patriarchal, nationalist conception of manhood. While this is the most common conception of manhood, it is not the only one. Chicano rappers, including 2Mex, Xololanxinxo, Jehuniko, and Krazy Race, represent Mexican manhood in complex ways that challenge the negative conception of the Mexican macho. Kemo the Blaxican is among those who present different images of Chicanos/Mexicanos.

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Kemo’s Dignified Macho

Kemo’s masculine Mexicanidad often succumbs to the forces of patriarchy and capitalism, which teach a narrow definition of manhood. However, his macho selfidentity includes important virtues such as chivalry, honor, and respect. His macho struggles for dignity in a racist society. Like working-class Chicano and black men before him, Kemo creates his art as part of his claims to dignity. Luis Alvarez (2007, 55) shows how dignity is “a lived struggle for pride, hope, and humanity against poor life chances.” Kemo’s continuous references to racial pride and racist struggles, economic problems, and love for his children and people represent such a personal journey toward dignity. Kemo’s masculinity is informed by many cultural influences. His use of iconic Mexican images, working-class black masculine themes, and popular U.S. images of manhood illustrate these influences. Kemo’s macho is often patriarchal and resembles the ideal or hegemonic man in contemporary U.S. society. He is working-class and brown, so he must struggle against the forces of capitalism and racism to survive and thrive. In the face of racist and economic assaults on working-class men of color like Kemo, he also represents a brown father and family man who is creative, spiritual, and peaceful. Kemo is unafraid to let the world know who is. In many songs, he proclaims

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both his virtues and his vices. He unapologetically describes his masculinity as developed in a complex cultural milieu and economic circumstances that often lead to dangerous behaviors. He is a Mexican macho like characters from the classic Mexican bingo-like game lotería. Numerous iconic figures and items from Mexican life appear on the lotería cards. Rhymes reflecting the image on the front appear on the back of the card. Kemo utilizes this Mexican cultural practice to represent himself. In the song “Ruido” (2004), from the compact disc Simple Plan, Kemo raps: Think of a little game you know; lotería. I’m a little like these joes: el diablito, el negrito, el soldado, el borracho, el apache, el valiente y la muerte corre, vete porque corazón de león tengo yo

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y soy guerrillero cuando está cabrón

Kemo claims that he is like el diablito (the devil), who according to the rhyme on the card, takes little boys who don’t behave (“pórtate bien cuatito, si no, te lleva el coloradito”). With this reference to himself, Kemo suggests a dangerous side. His multiracial self is revealed as he asserts his blackness and his Indianness, claiming to be like el negrito and el apache. These figures have often been ridiculed and reviled in Mexican culture. Yet, Kemo embraces these aspects of himself, redefining them as noble characters. Part of his macho self is to be a warrior like soldiers (el soldado), to be honorable and courageous (el valiente and guerrillero), and willing to use violence as he warns people to leave (vete) and run (corre) from him. Kemo is proud of his people and is willing to protect them and help make things better. He is a patriarchal figure. In “A Little Rain” (2007) he provides for his family. He eschews displays of wealth (“glitz and glamour,” “my wrist ain’t froze [doesn’t have expensive diamond jewelry] / no grill [platinum, gold, or diamond teeth]”). Instead he has to use the money for which he works hard to pay his bills and feed his children and female partner. The glitz, the glamour, / I pay it no mind. / You see the grind, / the hustle, my struggle is real. / You see my wrist ain’t froze, no grill / just tryin’ to pay my bills. / I gotta son, a daughter, man they gotta eat. / I gotta lady who loves me truly from head to feet. / That’s enough to make me richer than some other men / but not enough to get me by when my paper’s [money] thin.

Other times, like the good patriarch, Kemo will use violence in his role as provider and protector. In “You Know” (2007) he tells imaginary foes that “you don’t

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wanta hurt my flesh / I don’t want to see through your chest.” He tells the enemy that if he hurts Kemo or his family, Kemo will shoot him in the chest and put a hole through him. He not only sees his role as provider and protector of his immediate family, but also of his extended Mexican@/Chican@ family. For example, in “5th of May” (2007), one hears a chant proclaiming that “the time for us is now, it’s right now.” The “us” in this excerpt refers to people of Mexican descent. Kemo urges radical dissent against the radio industry that only plays Chicano music on the fifth of May (the Mexican holiday Cinco de Mayo), and against our racist, classist society. He claims to be a “soldier, ready to blast on the system / [that] tr[ies] to set us up to fail so I resist them.” He later describes himself as an “everyday man with dreams and hopes / for Black, Brown and poor folk.” The music of “5th of May” reinforces Kemo’s racial, ethnic, and class claims. He uses rap conventions of creating a multilayered sound by sampling, cutting, and pasting numerous pieces of music. The music is a combination of contemporary black American musics, including a blues harmonica, hip-hop beats, funk-inspired drums, and computer sounds. The blues harmonica runs throughout the song and is the last thing heard. The blues have always symbolized black working-class struggle. Leroi Jones’s (aka Amiri Baraka) study of the blues illustrates how black people created a musical form that responded to and speaks to their struggles in particular historical moments. Black music, including contemporary rap styles, provides an arena for black voices and black critiques. It has served as both a source of empowerment and catharsis. Kemo’s use of the blues harmonica identifies him with the history of black people in the United States, while it pays homage to previous generations’ survival strategies, including the worldview expressed in blues lyrics and music (Cobb 2008; Davis 1999; Jones 1963). Kemo resists government domination of his people. In “Left Coast Latino” (2007) Kemo describes the West Coast, and Los Angeles in particular, from the perspective of Latin@s. Frequent negative experiences with government agencies and officials reinforce the notion that many Latin@s have of the government as enemy. Kemo rhymes that he will “rally in the street / when the government acts beast” and demonstrates his frustration at government agents and policies that “try to deport half of my family.”3 Like the hegemonic U.S. male and the traditional Mexican macho, Kemo’s macho is courageous; he is not afraid of challenge, and he can demonstrate mastery over himself and others (Strate 1992). Often this manifests itself in risk-taking behaviors (Katz 1999; Kimmel 1994). Kemo and other males in his music drink alcohol often, smoke marijuana, and otherwise “party.” In “You Know” (2007), Kemo describes walking around with friends, smoking marijuana (“en la noche hay

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andamos en las calles con leños quemamos”). Kemo and his friends courageously flout moral conventions and the legal system as they openly use drugs in defiance of the law. Kemo, like many who extol the virtues of marijuana use, also imbibes in order to have fun. The entire song “I Drink, She Smokes” (2004) is about alcohol and marijuana consumption and sex and desire. The song celebrates fun, sex, and altered states of being. Here, drugs and sex are used like alcohol and sex during Carnival. They play a subversive role in which the marginalized defy conventions of religious or other propriety (Bakhtin 1984). Drugs are used as a way to wrest control of one’s body from domination by middle-class morality and capitalism. Far from using drugs to affirm a physically dominant and in-control masculinity, here Kemo sees drugs as a cathartic device, and as a way to enjoy what he describes as the never-ending struggle of life. Kemo illustrates another side of himself as nonviolent, non-hypermasculine. Though in other songs he claims to use violence when necessary, in “Kind of Stories” (2004) he advocates peaceful, or at least nonlethal, ways of interacting. He raps: A lot of fools pull gats [guns] when all that’s called for is a street fight. A mama cries, a baby dies just before the sunrise and four blocks down the way a man beats on his wife. Now I ain’t captain save a ho’ but shit like that gotta go. The city crawls with those that wanna stick me for my dough. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

That keeps me on my toes and ugly. Should I punch a clock or punch a sucka’s lights out and take him for what he’s got? Money makes the planet spin. He with the most cheddar [money] wins. Pump us full of images we want so bad we chalk up sins.

Here Kemo critiques violence because nothing is solved and it often destroys families and innocents (“a mama cries, a baby dies . . . a man beats on his wife”). Kemo prefers nonviolence, but given the nature of the working-class, urban environment where he lives, he has to be ready for violence (“keeps me on my toes and ugly”) and questions whether he should use it or work and stay on the straight path (“should I punch a clock or punch a sucka’s lights out and take him for what he’s got”). Kemo argues that this violent environment is caused by capitalism and the corporate media. Criticizing how money is overvalued in society, Kemo connects violence with greed. After asking if he should physically harm someone for their money, he describes the capitalist ethos that causes him to seek money and things:

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“Money makes the planet spin / he with the most cheddar wins.” Corporate print, entertainment, film, and radio media convince people through the constant barrage of the “good life” defined in relation to things. Advertisers et al. convince us that money and things will bring us happiness.4 Kemo argues that as a result, some will “chalk up sins” to attain a life of luxury and excess. In the chorus, Kemo has us ponder how we are going to live our lives. He asks the listener which path they will take, and how people will remember them once they are gone. For Kemo, the mark of what type of life you lead is the “kind of stories” that people will tell about you after you have died. The chorus reads: There’s a whole lot of good and bad and ugly in these city streets. Which one will you be? Will you wake up daily and run the rat race? Hustle twenty-four-seven tryin’ to avoid case? Will the ugly within us all supersede leavin’ bullet holes through flesh in your community? At the end of the road when your body’s stiff and cold

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what kind of stories about you will be told?

Kemo’s good man works and avoids crime (“hustle twenty-four-seven [each day] to avoid case”). He doesn’t allow the ugliness and negativity in his environment to lead to gun violence. In the second verse, Kemo addresses manhood under poverty conditions. He sees men doing many things to provide for their families. Some of them are illegal. While Kemo may prefer peace and sees a good man as one who works and stays out of trouble, he concludes that he should not judge other men. There is a good man around the way at four am every day. He clocks in he can’t win for simply tryin’ to get by. Another man on pay day he can’t wait to go and play. He’ll bet the rent every cent. No milk at home his baby cries. But who am I to judge? I’m trying to balance like Atmosphere. Up the street a triple beam puts diamonds in his daughter’s ear.

Kemo’s macho takes care of his family even if he has to sell drugs: “up the street a triple beam [for weighing drugs for packaging and distribution] puts diamonds in his daughter’s ear.” For Kemo, conspicuous consumption—gaudy displays of cars, clothes, jewelry, and other luxury items, or large sums of money that are often celebrated in “bling” rap (a genre that has dominated the rap sales charts for a decade)—is unimportant.

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Even if he had a nice car, expensive tire rims, and fashionable clothes, he wouldn’t talk about them. There are too many more important topics. Kemo raps in “Last Days”: “Now I don’t really wish to speak on twenty inch rims / twenty-fours twenty-six with spins. / I ain’t got em but if I did I truly doubt I’d write about em, / hoot and holla I got em. / I feel blessed the kid got limbs in all the right places.” Kemo expresses his concern that many rappers value the wrong things. They value commodities instead of people. Instead of praising the fact that they have expensive cars, expensive jewelry, and expensive teeth, Kemo feels fortunate that his child is healthy.5 Kemo as a multiracial Mexican man often invokes spirituality to assist him in his search for dignity. Kemo prays on the final track of his latest CD. In “Breathe” (2007), Kemo creates a musical track with a beautiful and haunting piano riff, threenote bass figure, and funky drum, cymbal, and high hat rhythm. The 8-bar pattern played repeatedly throughout the track serves as the ritual musical heartbeat (as heard in many Native American drumming traditions) for Kemo’s prayer, in which he begs the Lord to let him live long enough to be a good father and inspiration for his people. In the chorus he chants, “Breathe / just a little bit longer. / I need more time, lord, a little bit longer. / Breathe / just a little bit longer. / It’s hard out here / but it’s making me stronger.” He needs more time on Earth so that he can teach his children right from wrong, how to survive and have self-confidence. He wants to breathe long enough to “watch my daughter develop to a beautiful flower, teach my son about earning a dollar and the truth about cops and robbers.” Kemo prays for longevity so that he can enjoy seeing his children mature into a good man and a good woman. Notably, a good woman is a beautiful flower, and a good man earns money and provides for his family. In Kemo’s lyrics, a good man is the patriarchal head of the household. Later, he adds to the life he envisions for his children, praying for more time so he can “teach my kids to do better than their old man did. / I wanna see em shine, / speak their mind, / go for theirs like I went for mine.” He hopes, like many parents, that his children prosper and “do better” than him. He wants to see them succeed (“shine”) in whatever they aspire to do (“go for theirs [dreams]”). Kemo wants to prepare his children to live in a world that is often difficult for working-class people of color (“it’s a cold, cold world”). Invoking dead ancestors in the tradition of Día de los Muertos, Kemo teaches his listeners a lesson that his father imparted. He raps: “You should value every second you got. That’s what my daddy taught. I guess I miss him a lot.” Later in this final verse, he encourages and challenges those who feel downtrodden or depressed. “Everybody’s been down / even those lifted far off the ground. / Thinking they gifted but when the sea’s calm and the storms cease / look inside yourself did you find peace?”6

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Kemo’s Women

Men’s relationships with women, imagined and real, are important sites of male gender development and identity. Women and girls are the gendered Other to men and boys. Real men, therefore, must not be like women in any manner. They repudiate femininity. In so doing, they devalue women. For many hegemonic men, women serve the purpose of providing pleasure to them. Women are sex objects—things to be looked at. In Chicano/Mexicano rap, women are seen through this male gaze. Discussions of women in their rap lyrics focus on women’s bodies, sexuality, and beauty (Baker-Kimmons and McFarland 2010; McFarland 2008a). Otherwise, as in much of Mexican/Chicano oral tradition, they are invisible (Limón 1992). The song “I Drink, She Smokes” is one of the few that feature both a male and female protagonist. In it, Kemo describes a drunk sexual encounter: “I drink she smokes. I liquor up she tokes [smokes marijuana]. / She like the way I hold the mic and my tasteless jokes / cuz I’m an ugly mothafucka but she know me well. / She my sexy little devil that I like to plow [have sex with].” While I would not presume to moralize about the nature of sex and drug use, I believe the song is important because it is one of the rare extended discussions of women in Kemo’s music and it addresses a woman’s sexuality. The final verse of the song describes Kemo having sex with the imaginary, unnamed woman “in a cramped bathroom stall.” In the party song “Note the Crowd,” female audience members at a Kemo the Blaxican show are only briefly noted for their sexual interest in him. After describing the crowd dancing in unison, Kemo mentions a snippet of a conversation. He raps: “Women of color listening be like ‘he Mexican.’” In the next verse, Kemo raps: I “got these chicks they be up in the front row / shaking it and moving.” These women (“chicks”) are presumably dancing seductively as he describes them “shaking it,” or dancing in such a way that their bodies, especially their breasts and buttocks, shake. Apart from the song “La Flor” discussed below, women are objects of sex and desire—objects who give pleasure to Kemo’s macho. Additionally, many Chicano rappers use women as a currency with which to compete with other men for dominant positions in the social order (McFarland 2008b, 2006a). In “You Know” (2007), Kemo claims that he will take another’s sexy woman. He raps: “Is that your honeydip? / Better keep a tight grip. / She’s trying to leave with a g that’s well equipped.” After establishing that he is stylish and great on the microphone (“6’2” Blaxican with the afro picked out”), he warns another man that the man’s girlfriend (“honeydip”) is about to leave the place with Kemo because he is the superior man in the situation. He is “a g[angsta] that’s well equipped.” Winning the prized woman, Kemo proves that he is more of a man, más macho, than his fictional foe.

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Kemo’s representations of women present them as the gendered, sexualized Other to Kemo’s ideal macho. However, he can write about women in more complex ways, as he shows in his ode to working-class women of color, “La Flor” (2004). He dedicates one verse to a battered, economically poor Mexican woman who is leaving her man, and another verse to his mother. También la conoces tu está con El Feo.

[You also know the one with El Feo

bonitos ojos y lacio cabello. Hermosa

Pretty eyes and silky hair. She’s beautiful

y bella que es Ella. No tiene caso los golpes

There is no cause for the beatings.

que le llegan Está con aquél bruto la maltrata

She is with that brute who mistreats her

Qué te parece ya merito la mata?

Do you think that soon he’ll kill her?

Solo dos años casados por la iglesia y

Only two years married and without a job

el sin jale rondando por las agencias desesperada

roaming around the agencies desperate

con tanta presión

with so much tension.

Recoje a su chico y gana con su mamá.

She takes her kid and goes to her mom.

“vieja dónde vas? Es la última vez que

“Woman, where are you going? It is the last

te pego.

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Te quiero. Perdóname.

time I’ll hit you. I love you. Forgive me.]

In this verse, Kemo addresses wife abuse and the life of a woman who was beaten by a brute who mistreated her. After two years of marriage, her husband is without work. He beats her so badly that it seems that he will soon kill her. Having enough of the abuse, she desperately grabs her child and leaves, while the man cries out, asking where she is going and saying that this was the last time he would hit her. He tells her that he loves her and asks for forgiveness. In the first verse, Kemo imagines an ending in which the woman escapes the violence. This mother has the agency to take herself and her child to a better place and, presumably, a better life. Kemo pays homage to his mother in the third verse of the song: You feel pain sometimes when we reminisce. I neva had it so see I could neva miss those things as a kid. Coming up though I remember how you gave us all the love, showed us how to be respectful, how to get a check for hard work, and when it really hurt you stood ground. Neva did you back down even alone you the strongest woman ever known but you could lean on me whenever you need me cuz every thing you ever done for me was neva taken for granted like a tree that gives through the good, pain, sunshine and rain.

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Though his mother feels bad sometimes when she thinks about how Kemo was forced to live with less because they were poor, he tells her he didn’t miss what he never had, and he remembers his mother’s love and how she taught him to be respectful and hardworking. He describes her as “the strongest woman ever known.” This reverence for mother is expected (A. García 1997b; Rincón 1997). Both hip-hop and Mexican/Chicano cultural production have traditions of saint-like reverence for mothers and mother figures (McFarland 2008a; Herrera-Sobek 1990). Kemo celebrates the suffering mother, a common image in one of Chicano rap’s precursors, Mexican and Chicano corridos (Herrera-Sobek 1990). His mother was poor and struggled to provide for her family. This long-suffering mother is perhaps the most venerated figure in patriarchal Chicano/Mexicano cultural production. Kemo’s music, like much of male cultural production, pays little attention to women.7 They are mostly invisible (Limón 1992), or are used to please men sexually (Hill Collins 1990; hooks 1994a; Keller 1994). Rarely are they complex characters in Kemo’s or other Chicano/Mexicano male cultural narratives. Kemo represents women in typical patriarchal fashion in some songs. They are sex objects and commodities over which men compete. Kemo never explicitly mistreats women or hurls gender epithets at them. Yet his relationship with women remains within the patriarchal mindset. Importantly, like a good Mexican macho, Kemo demonstrates a reverence for women of color, especially those who nurture, in some of his lyrics. He is a dignified, kind macho who never disrespects women but remains dominant.

Alternative Macho?

Kemo’s representations of himself and others are multifaceted and challenge existing knowledge and stereotypes related to Mexicanness and mestizaje.8 While PerezTorres found Delinquent Habit’s “musical and visual representations [to] engender an affirmative and uncritical cultural mestizaje,” examining more of their work and Kemo’s solo projects shows a complex mestizaje that is both critical and uncritical. Often Kemo challenges stereotypes about manhood, Mexicanidad, masculinity, His representations of gender and his gender identity reflect his upbringing as a Mexican American/African American male at the end of the twentieth century. The patriarchal traditions in Mexican and black cultures influence Kemo’s macho. As well, the hegemonic man of the late-twentieth-century capitalist U.S. society is represented in Kemo’s lyrics. His macho is a complex mix of hegemonic and alternative masculinities from multiple traditions. His dignified self comes from

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the black and Mexican racial and ethnic pride instilled in him as he matured into manhood and fatherhood. Kemo’s lyrics and his entire body of work represent the continuous evolution of Mexican culture. Mestizaje has been a survival mechanism and source of pride for many people of Mexican descent. Valle and Torres (2000, 190) demonstrate how “Latinos have evolved a countertradition, or anti-aesthetic, of juggling languages, music, clothing, styles, foods, gender, anything with which to fashion a more meaningful social and cultural coherence.” Kemo embodies this countertradition. As a phenotypically black Mexican American, Kemo reminds us of the long history that Mesoamericans have had with Africans. His work presents another instance in which Africans and Amerindians encounter one another and create music, worldviews, and language. The horizontal affiliations created between blacks and Mexicans on the West Coast have had profound effects on Chican@ culture in the twentieth century. Unfortunately, this interethnic exchange and assertion of Mexican manhood relies on the maintenance of strict gender roles that subordinate women. Kemo’s representation of women relies on a belief that women exist to serve men. Kemo’s women are valued for their bodies, their sexuality, or their motherhood. In each of these roles, women take care of men. Rarely, in Kemo’s or others’ lyrics, do you see a complex, intelligent, professional woman, or a creative and resistant artist or community worker. Never is she spiritual or successful. This stereotypical patriarchal image of women is related to the “positive” macho image that Kemo and others present. The macho stands up for his rights and the rights of others, possesses a general code of ethics, respects others—especially women, and takes his responsibility toward others seriously. He is the traditional “provider and protector.” However, in the end the positive macho of Kemo and Mirandé maintains the ideology of male supremacy and the patriarchal order. While thoughtful and thorough in their depictions and analyses of race, racism, and class, these commentators/scholars remain uncritical of the dominant gender order. Their Mexican machos remain the dominant gendered Other to Mexicanas. Additionally, Kemo’s embrace of the hypersexualized and hypermasculine “black buck” figure does little to challenge the racist patriarchal order. Kemo, like many before him, attempts to co-opt a racist image and make it work for him. He redefines the image as something positive, resistant, intelligent. At the same time, he accepts the racist definition of himself as a hypersexualized Other. He valorizes himself through his alleged sexual prowess and aggressiveness. Patricia Hill Collins (2004, 206) explains how “For men, sexual dominance associated with the phallus becomes an important indicator of masculinity in a culture that places barriers in

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other areas of achievement.” Through sexual power, marginalized men of color can become the ideal, dominant man. Black masculinity exists in a racist, patriarchal society in which “African American men lack access to the forms of political and economic power that are available to elite White men.” Therefore in their attempt to gain masculine legitimacy in a racist world, “the use of their bodies, physicality, and a form of masculine aggressiveness become more important” (Hill Collins 2004, 189–90). Kemo’s “Big Buck” contributes to a harmful, racist, and sexist depiction of black and Mexican masculinity. While Kemo plays with the racist imagery of the hypersexual black man, in the context of new racisms that rely on and amplify white stereotypes of black men that contribute to the incarceration of a million of them and unconscionably high rates of un- and underemployment, such humor can prove to be a double-edged sword. While having fun with racist stereotypes and using them as a source of self-empowerment and social critique on the one hand, it justifies racist notions of black men as animals and savages, on the other. A truly alternative or progressive gender ideology and identity that resists racism would challenge dichotomous understandings of gender that define femininity and masculinity as two mutually uninhabitable fields that narrowly define male and female gender roles. Additionally, an alternative gender ideology rejects equations of black and brown masculinity with sexual prowess and promiscuity. It also uncouples strength from dominance (Hill Collins 2004, 200). Kemo’s “positive macho” retains the equation of masculine strength as dominance over others. According to Mutua (2006), a progressive gender ideology requires a multidimensional inclusive definition of masculinity. This ideology defines strength beyond the limits of domination to include empowering communities and focusing our collective strengths to dismantle racist, gendered social structures (Mutua 2006; Hill Collins 2004). In the end, the politics of Kemo’s “positive” multiracial macho resists racism and capitalism, but fails to challenge gender ideology and sexism.

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The Rap on Chicano/ Mexicano and Black Masculinity: Gender and Cross-Cultural Exchange

The lyrics of black and Chicano/Mexicano rap artists present a number of images of manhood. This chapter examines how these artists characterize the actions of men, and how they define masculinity. Our analysis of lyrics to popular rap music from 1990 to 2002 shows that black and Chicano/Mexicano rap artists both challenge and affirm the dominant construct of masculinity and male power. We discuss the manner in which they perform masculinity to explain how and why the embracing of hypermasculine stereotypes is reflective of marginalized groups’ desire to resist their subordinate status and unequal male privilege. In order to contribute to the understanding of black and Chicano/Mexicano definitions of masculinity, we analyze the lyrics to two hundred rap songs. Given the racialized and marginalized status in U.S. society of both Chicano and black rap artists, their common class experience, and their historical and growing proximity to and familiarity with each other, we examine how rap lyrics demonstrate a common understanding of the ideal man, how this approximates the hegemonic model of manhood, and how these two groups of men differ in their definitions of their gendered self. In an increasingly multicultural and multiracial world, cultural sites such as popular music provide an arena in which blacks and Chicanos/Mexicanos exchange n

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culture, ideas, and intimacies and create new identities and cultural practices. The examination of rap lyrics can give us a measure of how these groups of workingand underclass men understand masculinity, and how similar their conceptions of ideal manhood are with each other as well as with the U.S. hegemonic masculine ideal. Patriarchal masculinity found throughout our social structure and within black and Chicano/Mexican cultural traditions creates unique understandings and representations of masculine identity. A discussion of black and brown masculinity from a hegemonic vertical orientation, in which subordinate racial groups interact with and are influenced by the dominant white group, can be expanded to a horizontal orientation where people of color interact and are influenced by each other. This may lead to “horizontal affiliations, a process by which marginalized groups recognize shared stakes in the struggle to create counter hegemonic practices and communities” (Habell-Pallán 2005, 12). Also, in the case of popular rap lyrics, these affiliations include defining manhood in violent and dominant ways and in opposition to devalued female Others.

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Hegemonic Masculinity, Race, Ethnicity, and Class

Hegemonic masculinity in U.S. culture is a limiting component to gender construction characterized by authority, control, independence, heterosexuality, aggressiveness, and violence. Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) state that hegemonic masculinity is the culturally prescribed ideal, and is not only contrasted with femininity but also with alternative, subordinate, and oppositional constructions of masculinity. Subordinate ethnic men who do not always have the resources to become the culturally ideal male will use the resources available to assert their own version of masculinity. Karp (2010, 65) writes about “hegemonic masculinity as ‘hypermasculinity,’ referring to its primary dimensions of dangerousness, acceptance of violence, and dominance, particularly over women.” He says that “An individual with few resources in one arena may compensate in another, such as when a poor, jobless youth displays his masculinity with sexist banter, wearing gang-style clothing, or carrying a gun. Each of these interactional displays asserts masculinity and enhances status” (65). According to Connell (1955, 83), “Marginalized masculinities represent complex configurations and interactions that occur when masculinity and other factors such as socioeconomic status and ethno-cultural background intersect with gender.” One’s race, ethnicity, class, and relation to the means of production directly impact the complex construction of masculine identity. According to Noble (2004), how masculinity is defined is part of the gendered politic, where what it is to be male

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does not result from a natural state, but in fact is a social construct. Noble writes of masculinity as shifting from a singular phenomenon of the male body equating to male identity and thus male power, to a more complex construct that is inclusive of race, nation, class, and ethnicity. Consequently, the construction of a masculine identity is directly impacted by the social location of men in their particular stage of capitalist development. The social-science and humanities literature on masculinity characterizes power as the central feature of contemporary hegemonic masculinity. This power could be financial, physical, or sexual, or displayed as high-risk behaviors and anything that distances oneself from femininity. Men experience this dominant form of masculinity unevenly, as some benefit more than others from fostering this “ideal” notion of manhood. Those men who are socially marginalized experience and express masculinity by exerting different forms of power. Working- and underclass men, including blacks and Mexicans in the United States, who generally lack financial and political power, strive to gain some power and control in their lives as they define themselves as men. Black and brown men without any real social potency define their masculinity through physical prowess, virility, and bedding numerous women, and by exerting different forms of power. Often their expression of masculinity leads to further racial stereotyping, as in the case of black sexual aggressiveness and irresponsibility, or the Chicano gangbanger. These limited expressions of identity are examples of “intensified hegemonic expression of gender into a form of hypermasculinity, so much so that it approaches a ‘caricature of masculinity’” (Toch 1998, 172). These forms of hypermasculinity may be used as defense mechanisms for having marginalized status in society. Robin Kelley’s (1994a) and Luis Alvarez’s (2008) analyses of zoot culture during World War II demonstrate how black and Chicano/Mexicano male identity is rooted in the construction and expansion of this nation’s capitalist economy. In “The Riddle of the Zoot,” Kelley (1994b) illustrates the relationship between the formation of male identity and the political economy through examining cultural politics during World War II. He examines the dynamics of black male identity that emerge from socioeconomic conditions by exploring Malcolm Little’s (aka Malcolm X) involvement in an underground economy. Kelley states that black working-class consciousness was informed by their exclusion from the wartime political economy, and that “hustling or similar kinds of informal illicit economic strategies” were engaged in, in order to escape the dependency on low-wage, alienating labor: “It was hard for black working people not to juxtapose the wartime rhetoric of equal opportunity and the apparent availability of well-paying jobs for whites with the reality of racist discrimination in the labor market” (242). As a result of economic exclusion and social marginalization, black and brown men have been forced to adopt the “phallic norm.” Bell hooks

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(2003) refers to this form of identity as life-threatening patriarchal masculinity that has been forced upon men of color. For black males, this patriarchal masculinity is often expressed as violent and hypersexed. In Cool Pose, Majors and Billson (1993) write that black males have not often enjoyed a privileged cultural role as protector to contextualize and balance violence and hypersexuality. Messerschmidt (2004, 5) explains further that resource-poor, marginalized black men “adopt a specific carriage that exemplifies an expressive and distinct assertion of masculinity.” Menacing postures, “the cool pose,” sexual power, and virility take on exaggerated importance to many black men (Majors and Billson 1993; Messerschmidt 2004; Staples 1978). This contributes to black men being seen as a threat to our society. Unlike white males, black males are unable to transform their masculine identity into financial or social power due to their marginalized position in society. Historically, black males have not had the privilege of expressing their masculinity. Since the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, black masculinity has been systematically broken down by racial discrimination and subordination. During the slavery era, the slave master denied black men control over themselves as well as the ability to protect or provide for their families. During the Jim Crow era, black men were unable to be the primary wage earners in their families due to their exclusion from the labor market. In the current high-tech global era, black males continue to maintain a peripheral relationship to the means of production, as well as a paternalistic connection with the government, illustrated by the disproportionate number of black men attached to the criminal justice system. Historically viewed as a threat to social order, black men have not been seen as protagonists and protectors like the white male heroes in popular culture. Black male attempts at developing an ideal masculinity are often criminalized or stereotyped as violent. Racial oppression prevents black men from fully embracing the privileges of hegemonic masculinity. This limitation can result in preventing black men from experiencing full personhood, personal competence, and humanity (Mutua 2006). Many black and brown men may reject the racism associated with dominant white cultural norms, but are not as willing to deny male privilege and domination. The ideal man and his individual expressions differ depending on one’s class and ethno-racial location. James Messerschmidt (2004, 3) finds that “men construct masculinities in accord with their position in social structures and, therefore, their access to power and resources.” Since working-class men in their constructions of themselves as dominant beings lack access to financial and political power, their expressions of power are often more physical. Maxine Baca Zinn, examining Chicano masculinity, concurs with Messerschmidt and others who find economic and other structural bases for working-class masculine identity and expression. She argues that “the emphasis on masculinity might stem from the fact that alternative roles and

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identity sources are systematically blocked from men in certain social categories” (Baca Zinn 1988, 73). Alfredo Mirandé (1997) describes complex understandings of masculinity in Chicano culture that include alternative and progressive understandings of manhood. The term macho has been widely used to describe Latino men in general and Mexican men in particular. When used to describe entertainers and athletes, macho suggests images of strength, sex appeal, virility, and masculinity. In the dominant culture, the predominant image of a Chicano macho involves attributes such as violence, patriarchy, authoritarianism, and spousal abuse (Mirandé 1997). Mirandé has argued that the negative manifestation of macho among Mexicans may be rooted in the Spanish Conquest of Mexico and other Latin American countries. As a result, the colonized, powerless man overcompensates for his feelings of inadequacy with hypermasculinity.1 Mirandé’s view of this negative perspective of macho is summarized in his compensatory model that “sees the cult of virility and the Mexican male’s obsession with power and domination as futile attempts to mask feelings of inferiority, powerlessness, and failure” (1997, 7). Many Chicano/Mexicano and black working-class men demonstrate a need to gain control or mastery over their lives in a society that systematically denies them the privileges of hegemonic masculinity (Strate 1992, 535). The oral, musical, and other traditions of blacks and Chicanos/Mexicanos inform their gender identity and expression, which, due to their marginalization, is often an extreme construction of masculinity (Jewkes 2002).

Methodology and Data

For the purpose of this study, we define popular rap music as it is established by music-industry standards. Popular rap music as a commodity is marketed for the purpose of profitability, and is not inclusive of all genres of rap and hip-hop culture. Focusing on the years 1990 to 2002, a random sample of the one hundred most popular black rap songs2 and the one hundred most popular Chicano rap songs3 were selected for examination. We chose to examine popular rap music because of the broad consumer base. We transcribed and coded the lyrics to these top two hundred songs in order to identify those that characterize gender identity, self-awareness, and empowerment. Additionally, we identified in the song lyrics discussions of hegemonic masculine characteristics as well as other forms of masculinity, musical style, images of women, discussions of politics, and discussions of race and racism. We operationalized each of four hegemonic masculine characteristics commonly discussed in the social-science literature, and calculated in how many songs each of

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Table 1. Songs Demonstrating Hegemonic Masculinity by Ethnic Group: Popular Black and Chicano Rap Songs, 1990–2002 BLACK

CHICANO

n = 100

n = 100

Financial power/conspicuous consumption

43

26

Drugs, daring, and fearlessness

54

65

Violence/physical power

48

73

Women/sexual power

51

53

Sample Population

these characteristics appeared. When rappers spoke about money or conspicuous consumption, we coded this as “financial power.” Lyrics that mentioned violence were coded as “physical power.” Discussions of sex and sexuality in the songs were coded as “sexual power.” Songs in which men called women names or sexualized women or themselves we also coded as “sexual power.” Drug use demonstrated “daring and fearlessness.” The findings illustrated in table 1 are examined below.

Findings

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CONSPICUOUS CONSUMPTION: BLING, SPINNING RIMS, AND ECONOMIC POWER

In the United States, the ideal man has financial power. The ideal man has money and leads a life of leisure surrounded by the “finer things.” He is a playboy who drinks and eats the best. He has money to burn, and jewels and precious metals to show it. Moreover, because he has money, he can use it to attain power. Following Weber’s definition that power is the ability to get people to do what you want them to do, then the more money (power) a man has, the more he can get people to do what he wants. Black and Chicano/Mexicano men who are generally devoid of financial power use conspicuous consumption in a class performance. The rap songs in our sample often discuss in detail the luxury items that they have and how they live the rich, playboy dream. In our sample, forty-three popular black rap songs and twenty-six Chicano rap songs had imagery of conspicuous consumption, including cars, jewelry (especially diamonds), fine drink and food, and the “best” women. It is important to note that more than 40 percent of the black rap sample and only 25 percent of the Chicano rap sample illustrated conspicuous consumption. Much of this difference is likely to result from the fact that the black rap sample comes out of the corporate rap industry, which uses conspicuous consumption and branding of youth as a means of profit-making. The Chicano sample comes out of a

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slightly different social and cultural milieu. Chicano rap has its origins in Los Angeles gangsta rap and gang culture. Importantly, these rap artists are mostly outside of the corporate rap industry. Nonetheless, themes of financial power and conspicuous consumption enter their narratives. The Hot Boys from New Orleans dedicate entire songs to celebrations of alcohol, money, cars, jewels, and women. “Bling, Bling,” referring to the gold and diamond jewelry and other aspects of working-class black male fashion, exemplifies the Hot Boys’ and many others’ representations of financial power and the life that accompanies it. The chorus includes the following: “Bling bling / these niggaz right here like to bling bling / we got hoes up in here / bling bling / we be drinkin’ da beer / bling bling / and smoking all that bad ass shit / bling bling.” The second verse praises money and impersonal sex: “I’ma big pimp / hit the hoes up in they shit / shit / my niggaz up in Cash Money / they be getting tha money and fuckin’ the honeys.” According to the song, the men of Cash Money Records are financially powerful and, thus, are like pimps who have money, dominance over many women, lots of impersonal sex (“fuckin’ the honeys”), jewelry (“bling, bling”), and marijuana (“smoking all that bad ass shit”). The ideal man of luxury, like Hugh Hefner, has all of these things. Street pimps such as the famed Don Magic Juan are heralded as icons of the ideal man by many popular rappers. To be a pimp is to be an ideal man with financial and sexual power. They are figures in control of their lives and who live lavishly. They are unlike the black victims of racism and classism, whose lives are mostly controlled by others. Chicano rappers in our sample were less likely to focus on overconsumption of luxury goods and money in their songs. However, it remains a significant theme in Chicano/Mexicano rap, and like the songs in the black rap sample, the conspicuous consumption of luxury goods, and the pursuit of, and delight in, money are used to equate the rappers to the ideal or hegemonic man. Knightowl’s “West Coast Party” is one of twenty-six songs in the Chicano sample that equates financial power with masculinity. He raps: “Runnin’ all things, / flashin’ dope diamond rings. Pockets keep fat, / I got money and the gat. / For those talking smack I gotta stay strapped.” In this verse, Knightowl describes himself as financially powerful, illustrated by his “dope diamond rings” and “fat” (with cash) pockets. His power includes a gun (“gat”), which he is willing to use on those who cross him (“for those talking smack I gotta stay strapped”). Customized and expensive cars are commonly used symbols of financial power. Chicano and black male rappers describe the expensive and unique paint jobs, rims, and sound systems, or mention the make, model, and/or year of their customized car. In his verse in the Jay-Z song “Hey Papi,” Memphis Bleek raps: “The only thing Bleek spinning is them chrome wheels / spinning on them new rims.” Bleek is proud

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of his rims, which he describes as made of the coveted chrome and which spin in a manner popular with today’s youth. Lil Rob’s “Naughty Boy” celebrates cars (“my 6–3”; probably a 1963 Chevrolet Impala), money (feria) and marijuana (yerba). He raps: “I’m toppin’ out on my cylinders / and when it comes to money / I’m makin’ feria like millionaires / a hundred spoke daytons [tires] as I roll down the calle / in my 6–3, hop 33 down the valle / plus I got some yerba [marijuana], leva wanna smoke?” Junior Mafia, a New York–based group of the late 1990s that includes the superstar female emcee Lil Kim, rap about their imagined financial power, and the lifestyle it brings, in their hit “Get Money.” The chorus encourages the audience to not care about women (“bitches”) or men (“niggaz”). Instead they should pursue money. They chant: “Fuck bitches / get money. / Fuck niggaz, / get money.” Later in the song, they describe the “lifestyle of the rich and famous” that they live, rapping: “We spend cheese [money] / in the West Indies. / Then come home to plenty cream Bentleys. / You name it / I could claim it. / Young, black and famous / with money hangin’ out the anus.”

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Daring Machos: Marijuana and Masculinity

Drug use is common among people in many cultures. Drugs are used for religious ritual, mental illness (especially depression), fun and celebration, creative inspiration, and as a life enhancer. Drugs are also dangerous. They can lead to addiction and can cause people to do things they otherwise might not do, especially engage in violent acts. The dangerous side of drugs is often celebrated by hypermasculine men as a way to demonstrate fearlessness and self-control. While many types of drugs and alcohol are used by men, the drug most often celebrated in black and Chicano male culture is marijuana—aka cannabis, bud, weed, yerba or hierba, mota, hay, trees, and Mary Jane—which is smoked as blunts, joints and leños, or in bongs. Other drugs are mostly scorned, seen as dangerous, and openly disdained by most. On the other hand, drug dealing is seen as a hypermasculine occupation that requires skill, intelligence, and fearlessness. Selling crack, especially, is a trade often pursued by characters in rap songs. About 65 percent of the songs in the Chicano rap sample and 54 percent of the black rap sample discuss marijuana and other drug use. While drugs often demonstrate the hypermasculine trait of fearlessness in U.S. culture, for Chicano and black youth and young men, marijuana is only occasionally rapped about or seen generally as reflective of hypermasculinity. We found that more often marijuana use reinforces friendship and community, reflects the “good life,” and is used to enhance sex, or to otherwise celebrate life.4

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Crucial Conflict penned the most thorough celebration of marijuana use in our sample. Their 1996 song “Hay” praises marijuana (“hay”) use as a way to relax, relieve stress, and have fun sex. They say: Coldhard finna go in the back of the barn and get my big black peter [penis] sucked. / Pass the hay you silly slut. / Blaze it up [light it] so I can hit that bud / git me zoned / and I’ll be on / cuz I love to smoke upon hay . . . I just can’t get enough. Smoking every day I got some hay and you know I’m finna roll it up [make a blunt or joint] / make a cloud. / I’m gonna take my mind away from all the bullcrap, bump my sounds, lay back and roll. . . . Got a posse full of hoes playin’ in my braids / and we ’bout to get in em over

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yonder in the barn.

The rapper wants to go to a private place (“back of the barn”) and have oral sex performed on him by a woman he calls a “silly slut.” Additionally, he speaks of his love for marijuana that allows him to ease his mind (“take my mind away from all the bullcrap”). He ends the verse talking about having sex with a lot of women (“got a posse full of hoes playin’ in my braids / we ’bout to get in ’em over yonder in the barn”). Here they use marijuana to resist capitalist-imposed control of their bodies. They don’t work, but instead relax and have fun. Unfortunately, this resistance to wage labor is predicated on the exploitation and devaluing of women. Lil Rob’s attitude toward marijuana is indicative of most found in black and Chicano rap. Several of his songs venerate marijuana and its positive attributes. Like Crucial Conflict, Rob dedicates whole songs to the pleasures of marijuana. In his paean to marijuana, “High Till I Die,” Rob compares his love for marijuana (“griffa”) with his woman: “Pack my pipa full of griffa / just like my woman I could never leave her, cheat her, need her / so I take a puff and another puff / exhale.” The chorus pronounces Rob’s loyalty to marijuana use, saying, “High till I die / I wanna get high, so high / high on the natural high.” Additionally, Rob will smoke marijuana all his life because it serves as a palliative to his emotional pain: “I can smoke it on my own / never leave me alone. / I’m in my zone / stoned to the bone. / Me in the dark sittin’ in the park / forgettin’ everything that hurts my heart . . . escape from reality into a fantasy.” While the overwhelming majority of songs that discuss drugs celebrate fun, community, and sexuality, many songs in the gangsta genre of rap valorize the violence and hypermasculinity of drug dealing, most often crack cocaine. Conejo and Capone shoot at people with automatic weapons in order to dominate weaker, presumably other Chicano, men (“putting bitch ass vatos in fucking check”) in Conejo’s song “Conejo and Capone.” In this passage, they describe their use of high-powered automatic weapons (“straps”) to go into a house and steal drugs from

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the people inside. They rap: “Homies in the back got the straps on deck. / Putting bitch ass vatos in fucking check. / Numerous arrests. Conejo stay loyal . . . put my finger on the trigger. / Let the automatic stutter, home invasion, I extort narcotics.”

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GATS, GLOCKS, AND GANGSTAS: PERFORMANCES OF PHYSICAL POWER

Gun imagery is common in the pop-culture landscape. Most of our contemporary heroes in the movies and on television are hypermasculine men who kill and threaten with guns (McFarland 2003, 2008a; Giroux 1994; Jhally and Katz 1999). These heroes tell us that the ideal man is strong, dominant, and violent. In the absence of political power, such as the ability to command an army or police force and coerce large groups of people to do the will of the elites, working-class men can demonstrate their manliness through interpersonal violence. Interpersonal violence allows working-class men who may have little control or power in their lives to, at minimum, control and have dominion over their own and a few others’ bodies. Thus, some working-class Chicano/Mexicano and black rappers resort to violence to give meaning to their lives as men. Further, gun violence has been celebrated in black and Chicano/Mexicano cultural production as a means of resistance to racial domination and racialized demasculinization. In the Chicano/Mexicano oral tradition, corrido music presents the resistant Mexican or Chicano who “with his pistol in his hand” protects his family, self, and nation. In addition, their violence must be understood in the context of internal colonialism, the psychology of colonial subjects, and resistance to colonialism. Thus, Chicano/Mexican oral culture lauds the man as protector, unafraid to fight with hands or guns (Herrera-Sobek 1990; Limón 1992; Paredes 1959). Chicano/Mexicano boxers, military heroes, and street fighters are often looked to as examples of ideal, hypermasculine men. Similarly, the “Bad Nigga” has a long history in the black male oral tradition. Those who resisted slavery, white domination, and hopelessness with violence exemplify the hypermasculine black man. Violent icons such as Bigger Thomas, the Black Panthers, blaxploitation movie characters, and gangstas reinforce an understanding of masculinity as violent throughout many eras in black male oral and visual culture. These Bad Niggas, like their Chicano/Mexicano counterparts, guard their people and their personal integrity. In our sample, 121 songs (60.5 percent) mentioned or discussed violence. While violence was examined in the majority of the songs, overall blacks and Chicanos differed in the frequency with which they discussed violence. Almost half (48) of the black rap songs and nearly three-quarters (73) of the Chicano rap songs included themes of violence. Lil Rob in “Do My Thing” equates manhood with violence. He describes himself as “a little vato [young man] now seventeen with a glock. / I got my finger on the

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Table 2. Number of Songs with Violent Images by Ethnic Group: Popular Black and Chicano Rap Songs, 1990–2002

Sample Population Violence (total)

BLACK

CHICANO

n = 100

n = 100

48

73

Violence against women

7

2

Gang violence

4

16

trigger / not afraid to pull it, ese.” His claims to manhood include aggressive gun use, as he tells a potential foe: “Don’t tempt the man behind the gun / because this vato might have you on the run.” In the end, Lil Rob’s character “let[s] the shotgun spray [fire rapidly].” Rob further stakes his identity on his hypermasculinity in the song “Soy Chingón” (I’m Bad): Went back to the hood rolled up some indo [marijuana] / putos [weak men] rollin’ through my barrio / I broke their window / shank their fuckin’ tires now they can’t leave / and now it’s about time for three sold guys to bleed / pulled ’em out the ranfla [car] and we fucked them up . . . damn I shoulda pulled it [shot them] ’cause they deserved the bullet / put the

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cuete [gun] to their temple / then pulled the fuckin’ trigger ’cause it’s so fuckin’ simple.

This song is an autobiographical song in which Rob is telling you how chingón (tough) he is. He smokes marijuana (“rolled up some indo”) and attacks his enemies. He ambushes them by first disabling their car (“shank their fuckin’ tires now they can’t leave”) and then pulling them out of their vehicle and beating them. He laments not firing his gun (cuete) because these men deserved it (“the bullet”). Chicanos speak more often about violence than popular black rappers. Much of this gap results from Chicanos’ examinations and discussions of gang life. Sixteen Chicano songs in our sample, and only four black songs, directly reference gangs. Chicano rappers commonly display their loyalty to gangs. They will use violence to protect their territory and their friends, family, and fellow gang members. Brownside’s songs are indicative of this form of lyrical defiance and use of violence to define manhood. Brownside worked closely with black gangsta-rap legend Easy-E of NWA. Easy E, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, MC Ren, DJ Yella of NWA, and Ice-T defined the genre of gangsta rap that became popular on the West Coast, the location of the largest and oldest Chicano rap and hip-hop scenes. Brownside along with Low Profile Records, Knightowl, Darkroom Studios, and others focus much of their lyrics on gangsta life and behaviors, including violence, sex, and drugs. Every song

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on their CD Payback (1999) discusses violence. The song “Do or Die” in our sample describes the difficulties of life as a gangbanger in Los Angeles. They rap “gangster life in the city / you know it’s hard to stay alive.” The destructive, fratricidal violence celebrated by Chicano gangsta rap mirrors that of the colonized people found by Fanon (2000) and Flores Magón (Bufe and Verter 2005). The pathological violence and emotional state of these underclass Chicano youth, and a hypermasculine, violent manhood condoned by the dominant society, are extremely troubling for the Chicano community. Such unorganized violence is a central barrier to developing class consciousness and a liberatory politics among this sector of the Chicano and working-class population.

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BITCHES, HOES, AND HYNAS: MALE SEXUAL POWER

Women are common currency in the rhetorics of masculinity expressed in many all-male settings. Rappers and other men are able to show how masculine they are by distancing themselves from femininity (McFarland 2003). They claim to be the opposite of women, not emotionally attached to women, and more aggressive than women. In order to further their distance from women, they often dehumanize them by calling them names, such as bitch, ho, puta, and hyna. They also use them in competition with other men to be the most masculine. They claim to have the most beautiful women and the largest number of women, and to be able to take other men’s women. Slightly more than half of the songs in each sample discuss women. For the most part, male rappers claim sexual power—another key trait of the ideal man. About 71 percent of black and 52 percent of Chicano songs that mentioned women discussed having sex with them. Through impersonal sex with numerous women, rappers can show their emotional distance and virility. The Notorious B.I.G. (aka Biggie Smalls, Biggie), who was murdered by men wielding high-powered guns in 1997, often spoke of an ideal masculinity that mirrored the current hegemonic model. He spoke of violence, drug-dealing, money, conspicuous consumption, and sex. In “One More Chance” he praises his own virility, including his large penis (“the condom fill[er]), stiff tongue, and rough and athletic sexual abilities (“fuck her till her nose bleed”). He raps: When it comes to sex, I’m similar / to the thrilla in Manila / honeys call me Bigga / the condom filla / whether it’s stiff tongue or stiff dick / Biggie squeeze it to make shit fit / . . . fuck tae kwon do / I tote the fo-fo / for niggaz getting mad ’cause their bitch chose me . . . so gimme a ho / a bankroll / and a bag of weed / I’m guaranteed / to fuck her till her nose bleed / even if your new man’s a certified mack / you’ll get that H-town in ya / you’ll want that old thing back.”

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Table 3. Songs with Lyrics Discussing Women by Ethnic Group: Popular Black and Chicano Rap Songs, 1990–2002 BLACK

CHICANO

Number of total songs discussing women

51

53

Number of songs with sexual context

36

28

Percent of total songs mentioning women

71

52

Number of songs in which women are called names

47

33

Percent of total mentioning women Number of songs in which men engage in violence against women

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Percent of total mentioning women

92

62

7

13

13

4

In this short excerpt, Biggie demonstrates the range of hegemonic masculine behaviors that rappers often celebrate and valorize in their music. The hegemonic man is dominant and violent (Big “tote[s] the fo-fo [forty-four caliber] . . . for niggaz getting mad”); desires and has money (“so gimme a ho / a bankroll”); has multiple women who he wins in contests with other men (“niggaz getting mad ’cause their bitch chose me”); flouts danger and takes risks as often illustrated by drug use and violence (“gimme . . . a bag of weed”). Chicano rappers participate in the virility cult, as demonstrated by Knightowl in “The Baddest Muthafucka”: “I’m unfadable / some say I’m very hatable / two bitches datable. / You know my dick’s available. / Open them legs and let me put my prick inside. / I’ll do you like a doggy / bitch and then I’ll let you ride. / Hoes ain’t shit but a muthafuckin’ pastime. / They cum too easy like a muthafuckin’ fast rhyme.” Knightowl praises his ability at the same time that he dismisses women and uses them only for sexual pleasure (“Hoes ain’t shit but a muthafuckin’ pastime”). Knightowl claims that he can easily bring women to orgasm with his sexual abilities (“they [women] cum too easy like a muthafuckin’ fast rhyme”) and have multiple women (he is “two bitches datable”). Knightowl, like many young men and most of the rappers in our sample, claims sexual prowess. Men value women for their bodies and the sex that they can provide men. One way in which this is demonstrated in male rap and hip-hop culture is to speak about women’s bodies from the “male gaze.” As in much of male culture, they focus on or fetishize female body parts. They describe in detail the shapes and sizes of women’s breasts, hips, buttocks, and legs.5 Women are valued only for their physical attributes and not for other aspects of themselves. This type of representation of women, and men’s relationship to them, allows men to treat women as sex objects and to not get emotionally involved with them. Even the wholesome Will Smith

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speaks of women as body parts in the DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince ode to summer fun, “Summertime.” While cruising the beaches, the Fresh Prince (Smith) admires women who he finds beautiful. He raps “honking at the honey in front of you with the light eyes.” An examination of LL Cool J’s “Around the Way Girl” further illustrates how even the most well-meaning rappers often approach the subject of women from the male gaze. LL Cool J is considered a sensitive rapper who does not disrespect women. However, he, like most of his colleagues, sees women in limited ways. His lyrics suggest that women are valuable for the visual and physical pleasure that they provide him. His song reads in part: “Silky, milky her smile is like sunshine / that’s why I had to dedicate at least one rhyme / to all the cuties in the neighborhood / ’cause if I didn’t tell you then another brother would / you’re sweet like sugar with your gangster talk / want to eat you like a cookie when I see you walk / with your rayon, silk, or maybe even denim / it really doesn’t matter as long as you’re in ’em.” The song, which is a simple flirtation, can be read as “positive” in that the female protagonist is praised. However, LL Cool J remains unable to break out of the male gaze in describing women. Chicano rappers commonly depict women as beautiful body parts. Lil Rob, in “Naughty Boy,” raps: “My eyes wide open. / Can’t believe what I saw / fine ass baby doll / panties and a bra, / that’s all.” Proper Dos affirm this desire and search for exceptionally beautiful women when in “Firme Hyna” they rap: “I’m looking for a firme hyna / a hyna that’s finer than the average hyna / not a hyna that’s loose.” Many black and Chicano rappers make the connection between the ideal man, his life, and sex with multiple women in their song lyrics. The ideal man is powerful. This power allows him to live a leisurely life full of excess. Nas exemplifies this in his vision of a good, equitable, nonracist society that he runs. His hit “If I Ruled the World” depicts Nas’s utopian world that includes community uplift and empowerment, an end to poverty, and abundance for all. His utopian world allows him to be a hegemonic man living rich and powerfully. In one verse, he raps: “Brand new whips [cars] to crash / then we laugh / in the illa path / the villa houses for the crew, how we do / trees [marijuana] for breakfast, dime sexes [perfect 10 women] and Benz stretches [luxury limousines] / so many years of depression make my vision / the better livin’ / type of place to raise kids in.” Demonstrating the ways in which class influences how poor and working-class black men understand the ideal life for men, Nas claims that because he grew up in poverty his vision of “better livin” includes luxuries (“so many years of depression make my vision / the better livin”) including extremely beautiful women. For an underclass man of color like Nas, a utopian society (the “type of place to raise kids in”) affords him all the luxuries that elite white men have.

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(Not Quite) Alternative Masculinities

While we coded the overwhelming majority of songs in our sample as part of a hegemonic tradition, a few songs push the boundaries of masculine identity. These songs steer clear of associations with weakness (femininity or homosexuality) and rarely show vulnerability. However, they reject the violence, greed, and sexism of hypermasculine songs. The aforementioned song “If I Ruled the World,” by Nas featuring a chorus sung by Lauryn Hill, approaches an “alternative” masculinity. In the song, Nas eschews violence and competition with other men and opts for a vision in which black men and women get along and develop a prosperous society for all. The group Arrested Development is known for its lyrics that promote humanity, charity, respect, and a form of manhood based on inner peace. In “Mr. Wendal” they show compassion for a man who is down on his luck. The lyrics show the humanity in the homeless Mr. Wendal. They rap: “He gives me some knowledge, I buy him some shoes. . . . Mr. Wendal has freedom / a free that you and I think is dumb / free to be without the worries of a quick to diss society . . . Mister Wendal / a man / a human in flesh but not by law / I feed you dignity to stand with pride realize that all in all you stand tall.” The rap group Delinquent Habits is well-known in the Chicano hip-hop underground for its virtuoso music and celebration of life and themes of love and enjoyment. The song “Station Thirteen” in our sample exemplifies their outlook. The song is based around the idea that anywhere positive events occur, or where fun and good times are being had, you will find the members of Delinquent Habits. They simply want to enjoy themselves and spread love and happiness. The lyrics to the song include: “When you look into the mirror and your reflection is clear / when you finally take a chance overcoming your fears . . . you’ll find me,” “anywhere everyone love anyone for nothing,” “anywhere a place to feel free and let it go,” and “anywhere a fiesta ends in all peace / anywhere a place all gunshots cease.” The antiviolence theme is found in other Chicano rap songs in our sample. Some artists lament the violence that surrounds them in their neighborhoods, while arguing that it may be necessary to use violence to protect themselves. Their perspectives on violence do not exactly reflect hegemonic male perspectives, but they are not simply antiviolence either. The concept of la vida loca exemplifies this complex outlook regarding violence. Chicanos and other Latinos define la vida loca (the crazy life) in myriad ways. Puerto Rican pop singer Rickie Martin famously defined it as the fun party life. More commonly, Chicanos see la vida loca as the wild life, including danger and daring.

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Chicano gang members and street youth use la vida loca to describe a rough life of violence, guns, gang killings and retaliation, and other hypermasculine behaviors. While many Chicano/Mexicano and black rappers see violence positively as an ideal trait of masculinity, others reflect on the violence and question its effects on their people and communities. In our sample, Lil’ Rob takes a break from his macho posturing in “Oh What a Night.” He says, “I smile for my friends and later on I’ll cry / for la raza because we’re killing off each other. / It’s sad. Damn there goes another.” Rob shows sadness for his people (la raza) who suffer the senseless violence he advocates in other songs. He signifies on the tragedy and comedy masks of the English theater commonly seen in Chicano iconography along with the expression “smile now, cry later” to express the vida loca outlook of “enjoy yourself while you can because tragedy is right around the corner.” The Psycho Realm question brown-on-brown violence more forcefully in their “The Big Payback.” These legendary underground rappers are known for their thoughtful analysis of inner-city working-class Chicano life. In this song from 1999, Duke and Sick Jacken ask their audience why they murder others with guns, and implore them to stop the drug-dealing that often leads to violence. In part of the song, they rap: “Do you even know the reason for your blastin’? / It’s pointless. / You grab your stainless [steel gun], / do your action [shoot]. / He stays motionless / because of your error. / They label this era terror. / Drop the coke [cocaine] and the mirror. / Keep your nose clearer.” Psycho Realm recognizes that violence only begets violence as shootings lead to retaliatory violence. They tell their listeners that since “you took one of their lives and finished it / now they decide they want to retaliate.” They also indict the crack-cocaine economy that fuels gang violence. Chicano rappers both celebrate and lament interpersonal violence. This seemingly contradictory stance illustrates the contradictory nature of the relationship between masculinity and violence. While violence is seen as a trait of manhood that allows men a higher place in the masculinity hierarchy, it is men themselves who are most often the victims of violence (Hayden 2003; McFarland 2003; Katz 1999). Within Chicano communities, many feel that the government perpetrates violence. Following in the traditions of legendary folkloric figures such as Joaquin Murrieta, Emiliano Zapata, and Juan Nepumuceno Cortina, Chicano youth critique state violence against people of Mexican descent, valorize resistance, and sometimes fight against state agents of violence. Many argue that state violence against them results from a racialized system in the Southwestern United States and borderlands in which the lives of brown people are valued less than those of their white counterparts. A history of racialized state violence against Mexicans/Chicanos includes police forces, vigilante groups, Texas Rangers, and border patrol agents. In the song “Interrogated Cuz I’m Brown,” A Lighter Shade of Brown accuses Los Angeles police

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and the border patrol of harassing Chicanos/Mexicans because of their race. They threaten Police Chief Powell and Darryl Gates, the notorious chief who presided over the LAPD during the Rodney King beating and subsequent LA Rebellion. They rap: “Mr. Powell you’ll drop like a pound / we’ll send your ass to the hell Gates with Darryl.” They also proclaim their resistance to the border patrol, saying they will “bum rush [attack] the Borders / the hell with the badges / [Chicano rapper] ALT and A Lighter Shade of Brown don’t give a fuck / about a beige gate or a lime green truck [well-known color of border patrol vehicles].” In rap, men are almost always hypermasculine and virile. They are models of hegemonic masculinity. A small number of rap songs emphasize fun and violencefree celebration by men. However, even when Chicano and black rappers discuss temporary zones of freedom from violence,6 oppression, poverty, and racism, they do not criticize the sexism and restrictions imposed upon them by the ideal-man archetype. They have a race-based and class-based critique of society, but fail to develop a nonsexist, non-homophobic perspective. In essence, their utopian vision of society maintains a patriarchal gender order that subordinates women, yet elevates working-class and poor men of color to the status of white elite men who live lavish lifestyles and wield enormous power. Thus, they do not quite represent a distinct masculinity devoid of male privilege. They approximate Mirandé’s positive macho and maintain strict gender boundaries that limit other possibilities for being a man in U.S. society.

A Relational Analysis of Masculinity and a New Gender Ideology

The common racialized and working-class experiences of Chicanos and blacks allow scholars and activists to think about Chicanos, blacks, and other working-class people of color as a class in the Weberian sense of being similar in power, property, and status. Moreover, Chicanos and blacks in the West have had a long history of cultural exchange and communication that has undoubtedly shaped their worldview, including their notions of gender (McFarland 2008a). Given these commonalities, Luis Alvarez (2007) argues for seeing “disparate youth . . . as a unique class that reaches beyond regional or even temporal boundaries” (55). This relational approach to examining the cultures of youth of color provides us with a way of understanding ethnicity and gender from a horizontal perspective that decenters, but does not exclude, whiteness in the analysis of the lives of Chicanos and black men. It challenges an assimilation paradigm and helps us see that similar expressions of masculinity result from cultural exchange and communication, similar class positions, and resistance or “insubordination to domination” (55). In this way, we can heed Margaret

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Anderson and Patricia Hill Collins’s (1998) advice on going beyond a comparative approach to race and race relations toward relational and inclusive thinking. Commonalities of experiences and interaction—direct or via consumption of each other’s culture—allow for similar definitions of manhood. Much of the way that manhood is described in the lyrics of black and brown rappers shows them as violent, greedy, and sexist. The imperialism of hegemonic manhood and U.S. culture causes them to exchange with one another the most hypermasculine patriarchal ideas, submerging alternative empowering masculinities. This ultimately reinforces white, male, capitalist supremacy. A horizontal analysis that focuses on black-brown interaction as key to understanding their views on masculinity as revealed in rap lyrics shows the strong and continuous influence of the hegemonic male ideal. While often antiracist, they are rarely antisexist. Men across race, ethnicity, and class are subjected to dominant models that support hegemonic masculinity. Chicano and black rappers create characters in their songs that fight, have money, and engage in lots of sex with numerous beautiful women. Like elite men in our society, their identities and actions stem from the ideal of masculinity as power: political, physical, financial, and sexual. Additionally, the most patriarchal aspects of African American and Mexican American cultures are allowed to flourish while other types of masculinity are made invisible. Black and brown men who struggle to redefine the white patriarchal ideal do not repudiate the imposed white cultural norms, but merely demand their own access to patriarchy and male domination. This hegemonic understanding of masculinity does not allow men of color to develop alternative masculinities rooted in their own cultures. This hegemony is so potent that black and Chicano youth are unable to recognize that gender, race, and class are intertwined in U.S. capitalist, patriarchal culture and society. Each system of subordination (racism, sexism, and capitalism) reinforces the others and works to oppress men and women of color. A focus on racism without an examination of gender and class limits the development of an effective alternative masculinity. Ideals and norms from black and Chicano culture that have helped ensure their communities’ survival are mostly unexamined in the resistance politics of the ChHHN. The deconstruction of hegemonic masculinities allows for resistance and enables the formation of a multidimensional, inclusive definition of masculinity. Mutua argues that an alternative view of masculinity begins by confronting gendered racism in order to dismantle social structures of domination. An alternative form of masculinity would aid in the struggle of domination and subordination in general, and ultimately address the diverse and multicultural humanity of others in the global family (Mutua 2006, 4). For black men, the transitions lie in their not rejecting the subordination of all others and promoting human freedom for all. According to

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Mutua, progressive black masculinities actively stand against systems of oppression and domination, as well as empower black humanity. Progressive black men take an active and ethical stance against all social systems of domination, and act personally and in concert with others in activities against racism, sexism, homophobia and heterosexism, class and economic exploitation, imperialism, and other systems of oppression that limit the human potential of the black masculine self and others (Mutua 2006, 7). Hill Collins adds that what she calls a “new Black gender ideology” requires uncoupling strength from muscular might, violence, and aggressiveness. Strength of character, moral vision, and courage to do the just thing characterize this new ideology. Further, “the fundamental premise of any progressive Black gender ideology is that it cannot be based on someone else’s subordination” (Hill Collins 2004, 200). For Chicanos, resistance ideologies most likely were birthed out of the Mexican resistance to colonization and foreign invasion, resulting in an understanding of masculinity that foregrounds violent resistance. From this perspective, Chicano men “stand up against class and racial oppression and the exploitation of the poor by the rich” (Mirandé 1997, 67). For Chicanos, an alternative masculinity would incorporate what Mirandé calls a distinct code of ethics. From a positive view, macho “stresses humility, honor, respect of oneself and others, and courage. . . . macho is not manifested by such outward qualities as physical strength and virility but by such inner qualities as personal integrity, commitment, loyalty, and most importantly, strength of character” (67). A new gender ideology for men of color, Chicanos/Mexicanos and blacks in this case, require traits of the positive macho and Mutua’s progressive man with particular focus on female perspectives of gender and power. Hill Collins argues that a progressive gender politics would reclaim historical sources of female power. The resistance projects in Chicano and black rap remain incomplete because they fail to engage female and feminist ideas and perspectives. Their attempts to turn the tables on the dominant white male group fall short because they too readily rely on the very logic inherent in the white capitalist patriarchy and patriarchal aspects of their native cultures.

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CHA PTER 8

“Soy la Kalle”: Radio, Reggaetón, and Latin@ Identity

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Esta / es nuestra / herencia / Latina; / la voz que representa nuestra raza cósmica / . . . / Sientan el poder del reggaetón latino. —Don Omar, “Reggaetón Latino (Chosen Few Remix)”

On any given day during the winter and spring of 2006, Don Omar’s anthem “Reggaetón Latino” would boom from hundreds of car stereos in South Chicago, Humboldt Park, Pilsen, and elsewhere in Chicago. Young Latin@s tuned into WVIV/WVIX, “La Kalle,” heard Don Omar and collaborators proclaim the power of reggaetón, which in their words is the voice that represents Latin@s (or la raza cósmica). Punctuating Omar’s claim, La Kalle DJs ask callers, “Quién eres?” (Who are you?). Listeners respond: “Soy Mexico, Soy la Kalle” (I’m Mexico, I’m La Kalle) or “Soy Boricua, Soy la Kalle” (I’m Puerto Rican, I’m La Kalle). Don Omar, other reggaetón artists, and employees of La Kalle have closely linked twenty-first-century urban latinidad with reggaetón music and “the streets.” As representatives of the corporate culture industries, reggaetón artists and DJs attempt to define Latin@s in ways that closely align Latin@ youth with the artists and related products—in other n

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words, with consumption. At the same time, as Latin@s wanting to assert their agency and self-define, they struggle to develop a new urban Latin@ self-identity. The above excerpted lyrics from Don Omar’s popular CD Don Omar Da Hitman Presents Reggaetón Latino draw our attention to a common phenomenon in the development of youth identity: the centrality of musical culture to identity. For many Latin@ youth in the process of developing their sense of self, including their ethnic identity, reggaetón music and the cultural practices related to it provide a new way to see themselves as young people of Latin American descent who are living in postindustrial United States urban centers. This chapter examines the formation of Latin@ youth identity and some of the forces influencing its definition. Drawing on discussions with fourteen Latin@ college students and analysis of data on the recording and radio industries, I discuss reggaetón’s influences on Latin@ youth identity. Reggaetón as a type of Latin@ youth self-representation and expression and as a commodified popular culture defined in important ways by corporate desires and values plays myriad roles in the identity formation of Latin@ youth in Chicago and elsewhere. For today’s emergent Latin@ population in the United States, music that affirms Latin@ worldviews, accents, language use, and musical and aesthetic sensibilities positively contributes to their identity formation. Capitalist market values, the consumer ethic, and radio and recording industry profit margins also influence them. In the chorus to Don Omar’s song, the singer implores young Latin@s to dance, move, and otherwise feel the power of the music that Omar and his collaborators argue is the voice that represents their race.1 Reggaetón is a music rooted in Latin@ and Latin American urban experience that includes marginalization, capitalist globalization, literal and symbolic attacks by the state on youth and their culture, imperialism, rapid development in communications technology, culture wars waged by conservative elites, and xenophobia directed especially at Latin@ immigrants. At the same time, reggaetón develops from positive cultural experiences, including the development of rap music, the spread of hip-hop culture, other African diasporic musical cultures including Afro-Cuban styles and reggae, and a spirit of resistance to colonialism inherited from their parents and ancestors. My task in this chapter is to answer the following questions: How closely do young Latin@s align their sense of self with the definition of Latin@ espoused by corporate hurban (urban Hispanic/Latin@) radio? What influence does reggaetón and hurban radio have on Latin@ identity? How do Latin@s make their own meanings around the music and related culture? What other phenomena factor into young Latin@ identity? How do different Latin@ subgroups experience and relate to the Afro-Caribbean aesthetics of reggaetón? The young adult Latin@s that I talked with about this study, while fans of

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reggaetón and proud of the accomplishments of Latin@ musicians, demonstrate that they are more than urban Latin@ cool, more than the music, and more than the style offered by corporate radio and related industries. The following analysis of Latin@s and latinidad in Chicago will help us understand the definitions of Latin@ offered by La Kalle and market researchers, and how these align with young Latin@s’ self-definition.

Defining Latinidad

Ernesto Quiñonez wrote in Bodega Dreams (2000): It’s a beautiful new language. Don’t you see what’s happening? A new language means a new race. Spanglish is the future. It’s a new language being born out of the ashes of two cultures clashing with each other. You will use a new language. Words they might not teach you in that college. Words that aren’t English or Spanish but at the same time are

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both. Now that’s where it’s at. Our people are evolving into something completely new.

The panethnic identity “Latino” emerged rapidly during the final quarter of the twentieth century. Factors influencing the rise in Latin@ identity include governmental expedience, political opportunism on the part of Latin@ officials and leaders, the identification of common concerns and traditions by Latin@s themselves, and the proximity and cultural exchange between diverse Latin@ populations. Additionally, commercial concerns and the desire to capitalize on the growing spending power of Latin@s have spurred an attempt to solidify a market-based Latin@ identity. So, what is Latin@ ethnic identity and the practices and behaviors associated with it (or latinidad)? What is this “something completely new” that is neither Latin American nor estadunidense, neither inglés ni Spanish? In his study of Latin@ ethnic consciousness in Chicago, Felix Padilla (1985, 4) defines Latin@ ethnicity as “an emergent expression of shared structural and cultural feelings, excited as a strategic, wider-scale unit by disadvantaged people as a new mode of seeking political redress in American society.” Latin@ ethnicity, then, results from structural factors, especially racism and inequality, responses to structural inequality, interaction rates determined by geography and the proximity of different Latin@ subgroups to one another, and feelings of common origin among the various Latin@ groups, as symbolized by the Spanish language and common religious sentiments, especially Catholicism. Latin@ identity, as explained by Padilla, is a situational identity. Under certain circumstances, individuals and groups find it expedient or valuable to claim and

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assert a Latin@ identity, and under other circumstances, they choose to emphasize their identities as members of particular Latin@ subgroups: Mexican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, etc. Padilla explains that latinidad (latino-ness) is “situationally specific, crystallized under certain circumstances of inequality experience shared by more than one Spanish-speaking group at a point in time” (61). Because the situations of Latin@s in different regions are based primarily on the distinct cultural traditions and histories of the dominant or largest Latin@ groups in the area, latinidad varies from city to city and region to region (160). As well, its salience in different cities varies. Further, according to Padilla, latinidad is a “political ethnicity” used as “a manipulative device to gain advantages or overcome disadvantages in the society” (64). For example, in Chicago, inequality and racism that have caused Puerto Ricans and Mexican Americans to occupy similar positions in the economic and social hierarchies “influenced the rise of a Latino ethnic identity” (61). Recognizing commonalities of struggle leads members of different Latin@ ethnicities to organize together, share experiences, and develop a common identity. In Chicago, the Latin@ leaders Padilla interviewed repeatedly referred to appeals they made to Latin@s to recognize how both groups were affected by the history of racism and segregation in the city. The idea that Puerto Ricans and Mexicans are victimized by U.S. society, and locally by Chicago city politics, was the central rallying point for 1970s political leaders who sought Latin@ unity. While leaders and many others sought Puerto Rican–Mexican unity as Latin@s, many from both groups held (and continue to hold) negative attitudes toward the other group. Taking cues from dominant stereotypes, some Puerto Ricans see Mexicans as undeserving immigrants, while some of Mexican origin equate Puerto Ricans with black Americans, who they see as lazy, criminal, and immoral. Accepting the dominant views of Puerto Ricans and Mexicans is the price that some are willing to pay for an opportunity to be “Americans.” Many feel that distancing themselves from those who they see as not fully American may give them a pass to full cultural and political citizenship. Others have used a positive, encompassing definition of “Latino” to bridge the gap. Some Latinos have recognized the commonalities between Puerto Ricans and Mexicans, including their relation to the dominant racial group and their position as a racialized working class, as well as common cultural traits adopted from Spaniards. Further, Padilla explains that latinidad has much less to do with Latin America, Latin American life, and Latin American experience than with “American [U.S.] urban life” (144). Latin@ ethnicity is “an adaptive response” (149) to living as a racialized minority in the United States of America during the late capitalist period. Latin@ ethnicity is fluid and changing based on the changing conditions of U.S. society. Migration patterns influence how a panethnic Latin@ identity develops. Immigration from the Caribbean, Mexico, Central America, and South America greatly

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influences the nature of latinidad in a given region. Internal migration, segregation, and urban planning influence where Latin@s live and how much they interact with one another—what Padilla calls “interaction rates.” In Chicago, Mexicans migrated in the 1920s, seeking work in the steel mills and railyards. The first large Mexican neighborhood was in the community of South Chicago. Later, Mexicans moved into the Back of the Yards community and then into Pilsen and Little Village. The Puerto Rican population that came later did not migrate to South Chicago, which now consists of a majority of new African American residents and a minority of Mexican American families and new Mexican arrivals. Residents here have little interaction with Puerto Ricans and do not necessarily see Puerto Ricans as part of their ethnic group. In other areas of the city, such as Pilsen, Little Village, and the Humboldt Park area, Puerto Ricans and Mexicans have more interaction and more opportunity both for cultural exchange and to see each other as similar. Padilla’s analysis focuses on the conditions that created a Latin@ ethnic consciousness in Chicago. His reactive definition of Latin@ ethnicity leaves little room for Latin@ agency. That is, his description of the development of Latin@ ethnicity in Chicago relies on structural factors that negatively impact Latin@s and cause them to react, in part, with a sense of latinidad. This focus, while undoubtedly central to the development of ethnic identity, reduces ethnicity to a reactive phenomenon. Laura Pulido (1996), in a study that examines the development of another emergent racial/ethnic identity, “the people of color identity,” would agree with Padilla that racism (in this case environmental racism) was an important catalyst for bringing blacks, Latin@s, Asians, and Native Americans together under the umbrella panethnic, pan-racial term “people of color.” However, she argues convincingly that “while racism has been a key force in prompting the mobilization of people of color, a viable identity requires that people see themselves as agents in their own right” (164). Instead of being simply reactive, Latin@ ethnicity is also proactive and based on a common culture outside of the dominant society. As such, language, mestizaje (racial mixing), worldview and religion, and common political and cultural heroes are central to the development of Latin@ identity. Spanish as practiced by Latin@s is a hybrid language with a Spanish base and influences from African and indigenous languages and English. The versions of Spanish spoken by Latin@s have become known as Spanglish. Even though many Latin@s do not speak Spanish well or rarely use it, it remains an important dimension that defines Latin@ ethnic-group boundaries. Padilla (1985, 151) explains that “Latino ethnic identity is related more to the symbol of the Spanish language than to its actual use by all members of the various groups.” Ed Morales, in Living in Spanglish: The Search for Latino Identity in America (2003), argues that what unites Latin@s is a perspective that he calls Spanglish.

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Spanglish is not simply a language, he argues, but a way of seeing and experiencing the world. Spanglish is hybrid. It involves mixing and matching aspects of Latin@ cultures with U.S. culture, utilizing and transforming all that Latin@s encounter (an important aspect of what Chican@s call rasquachismo),2 and reacting to marginalization, racism, and structural inequality. Latinidad, from this perspective, is a positive creation of an active and creative group of people. Further, as Morales and others have illustrated, music has been central to Latin@ identity. Morales shows how common musical icons and musics have united Latin@s. Analysis of Latin@ musical history shows that perhaps more than any other force, music has been a common cultural practice among Latin@s. While each group has its own musical traditions from its various nations and regions of origin, many Latin@s throughout the twentieth century listened to and created the same types of music. Mambo, jazz, Latin jazz, and salsa have had pan-Latin@ appeal. Contemporary musics, especially reggaetón, salsa, and rock en español, continue to be one area of life in which many Latin@s find commonality.3 Reggaetón exemplifies not only commonalities among Latin@ groups but also how Latin@ identity has developed in the last two decades through a process of transnationalization and transculturation. Latin@ commonalities are not simply a result of their roots in Spanish colonialism and culture, but also a result of the realities of interaction, exchange, and adaptation of multiple and diverse cultures and peoples over the past several decades. As globalization has increased and people, ideas, commodities, and cultural products travel rapidly across the globe, Latin@s have created a transnational Latin@ youth culture exemplified by reggaetón. As Marshall (2009) and Flores (2009b) suggest, reggaetón—like Latin@ youth culture—was created beyond geography. Flores (2009b, x) explains that “Reggaeton may well go down in that history as the first transnational music . . . being an eminently popular form of music without any single specifiable place of origin.” Understanding Latin@ youth requires the same type of complex analysis that scholars of reggaetón have undertaken in trying to pinpoint its origins. In the seminal anthology Reggaeton, many authors discuss the multiple homelands of reggaetón. They include New York City, Jamaica, Panama, Puerto Rico, and other Caribbean locales. While reggaetón is identifiably a Caribbean Latin@ music, it is not only a Caribbean Latin@ music. The black, English-speaking Caribbean heavily influences its growth and development as well as Black American culture. Reggaetón and twenty-first-century latinidad result from the numerous flows of people and information that mark the postindustrial capitalist period.

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Latinization of Chicago

Olalquiaga (qtd. in Aparicio and Chávez-Silverman 1997, 2) defines latinization as “a process whereby U.S. culture and daily practices become increasingly permeated by elements of Latin American culture imported by Spanish-speaking immigrants from Central and South America as well as the Caribbean.” The editors of Tropicalizations find that Olalquiaga’s and many others’ understanding of latinization involves the dominant group appropriating and commodifying Latin American culture. However, the authors in Tropicalizations are more concerned with how Latin@s engage in “transculturation from below”: the ways “by which subaltern Latino and Latina subjects and communities struggle to attain power and cultural authority in the circulation of cultural discourses” (12). Both things are happening in Chicago. The dominant group borrows “Latin@” culture at will, commodifying it and profiting from it. At the same time, Latin@s have adapted their culture to their new environs as a survival mechanism. Through radio, their presence in city politics, and their role as consumers, Latin@s have shaped Chicago. To understand “the Latinization of Chicago,” we have to understand larger demographic trends in the country. “Hispanics” are the largest ethnic minority group in the United States, having surpassed the African American population at the turn of the century. According to the 2000 U.S. census, 35 million (12 percent) of those who responded to the census claimed Hispanic origin, while 34.6 million (12 percent) claimed black only as their race, and another 1.8 million claimed black and another race, or black and Hispanic. The fact that approximately 40 million people in the United States are of Hispanic origin is the most important social and demographic trend of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.4 Andrew Hobson (2006) writes that the Hispanic population is growing five times faster than the non-Hispanic population. About 58 percent of all Latin@s are of Mexican origin. Puerto Ricans are 9.6 percent of the total Latin@ population, and Cubans are 3.5 percent of the total. The large and rapidly increasing numbers of Latin@s translates into increased purchasing power. Banda (2005) reports that Hispanic purchasing power in 2000 was $630 million. Hispanics spend a greater percentage of their earnings than do non-Hispanic whites. They spend more on athletic shoes and fast food than nonHispanics and spend more time with the radio than non-Hispanics (Arbitron 2005b). However, I am reminded by Professor Jared Ball that we must be wary of uncritically accepting the marketing concept of “purchasing power” and the data on percentage of income spent on certain items. Arguments about the increased purchasing power of people of color can be used to blame the victims for their

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poverty. One version of the culture-of-poverty thesis argues that people of color do not know how to spend, save, and invest money. This cultural financial illiteracy is the cause of their poverty, not colonialism and capitalist globalization. Moreover, the data show that Latin@s and blacks spend more on certain fast food and sneakers than whites, but this may not reflect a culture of poverty, but the real conditions of poverty where goods and services cost more in barrios and ghettos, and where fast-food outlets are often the only choice in their neighborhoods.5 This also reflects the fact that whites have higher average incomes and can afford to spend a smaller proportion of their incomes on such items. Nonetheless, marketing agencies employ the concept and show companies how to market to Latin@s and other people of color. These marketing techniques are at the heart of the media influence on Latin@ youth identity. Importantly for this study, at the end of 2005 the median age for Hispanics was 26.7 while the U.S. median was 35.9 (Klaassen 2005). About 88 percent of Hispanics below the age of eighteen were born in the United States. According to marketing researchers, Latin@ youth purchasing power is increasing faster than its population growth (Hobson 2006). According to the Latino Intelligence Report, approximately half of 14–24 year-old Latin@s are bilingual but do not regularly consume Spanishlanguage media (Haubegger 2004). Instead they prefer English-language media, including music in English. Half of all Latin@s surveyed for the report said their favorite music was hip-hop (Business Wire 2004). According to market researchers, many industry executives who have been trained to see race and the market in black-white terms are unprepared to understand, and ultimately profit from, these demographic facts. The State of Latino Chicago examines trends in Latin@ growth. The authors report that there are 1.6 million Latin@s in the six-county Chicago metro area, with an additional 20,000 Latin@ immigrants added each year. The Latin@ population in Chicago is the third largest in the United States. Chicago is home to the second largest Mexican-origin population in the country (1.26 million, 79 percent of Chicago’s Latin@ total). About 8 percent are Puerto Rican and only 1 percent are Cuban. Most are citizens, and nearly 85 percent of Latin@ children were born in the United States. The young population of Latin@ Chicago reflects the trend throughout the country. Some 38 percent of children enrolled in Chicago schools are Latin@. This fact prompted the authors to comment that “nearly 30% of all children under five years of age are Latino. While Latino adults of working age are having an enormous impact on the economic and social life of the region, the future impact of young Latinos will be greater still” (Ready and Brown-Gort 2005, 18). Latin@ youth in Chicago are bilingual, bicultural, and binational; they are, in a word, transnational.6 Further, according to Arbitron, the Hispanics in Illinois spend $31.3 billion.

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Chicago Latin@s accounted for $20 billion of this total in 2003, up from $5.8 billion in 1990 (Arbitron 2005b). With this spending, Latin@s have had an enormous impact on entrepreneurship and job creation in Chicago, contributing to the growth and recovery of Chicago’s economy. A united Latin@ population in alliance with other people of color and working-class people could have even more important impacts on the region’s economy and politics. The problem for Latin@s concerned about quality-of-life issues, Latin@ cultural development, education, and jobs is that the various Latin@ subgroups have not always seen themselves as a unified ethnic group and have been at odds with black Chicagoans. The overwhelming dominance of Mexicans in Chicago, and their continued growth relative to Puerto Ricans, has led to some animosity. Many newer phenomena, including Latin@ festivals, community organizing, and the common musical cultures of reggaetón and Latin@ rap, are assisting Latin@s in overcoming this animosity.

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Tapping the Latin@ Youth Market

The growing Latin@ economic, political, and cultural power is evident in the changes to the recording and radio industries. Spanish-language radio stations have increased tenfold in the last twenty years (Arbitron 2005b). According to Billboard magazine, “Latin music was the only genre to register growth from 2004 to 2005” (Cobo 2005). The rapid ascendance of reggaetón as a Latin@ youth favorite has led dozens of radio stations to alter their formats from tropical and Mexican regional, for example, to urban Latino or hurban (Hispanic urban). The media giant Clear Channel led the way in 2004 when they began converting stations to the new hurban format. On November 27, 2004, the Houston (Texas) Clear Channel–owned station KLOL became the first to convert or “flip” to the new format (Arbitron 2006). One article in Business Wire claims that Clear Channel created the term hurban after examining marketing studies that suggested that the new Latin@ demographics were not being accounted for in their marketing. Latino Intelligence, a study by Christy Haubegger, founding editor of Latina Magazine, provides “reconnaissance” or “intelligence” on Latin@ youth demographic and consumption trends. This report is part of a larger network of marketing intelligence under the rubric of the Intelligence Group. According to their website, the intelligence group is passionate about understanding consumer culture and transforming this knowledge into actionable insights. We immerse ourselves in our consumers’ environments to absorb their way of life, uncover their feelings and, ultimately, understand their preferences. We filter through all forms of media, conduct focus groups

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and online surveys, and explore neighborhoods, schools and homes. We are in constant communication with a network of international trend correspondents and industry

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insiders who help us stay on the pulse of emerging ideas, attitudes and products.7

The Intelligence Group attempts to understand youth better in order to serve manufacturers and retailers who aim to brand children at a young age so that children will become lifelong consumers of their products. The Youth Intelligence division claims to be “the premier research and trend analysis service for the youth market.” According to their website, their customers include magazines, cable and network television stations, recording companies, and shoe manufacturers. The group sees children and young adults as mere purchasing power. Their online synopsis of the Latino Intelligence report holds that “the next generation of Latinos promises to be markedly different than today’s Hispanic market” (emphasis added). In essence, the creation of the hurban radio format results from intelligence gathered to capture and exploit Latin@ youth. Intelligence gatherers use a variety of quantitative and qualitative methodologies to “immerse [themselves] in [their] consumers’ environments to absorb their way of life, uncover their feelings and, ultimately, understand their preferences.” The Intelligence Group attempts to learn about Latin@ youth culture, their inner lives (“feelings”), and then reports the findings to clients who sell commodified Latin@ culture back to impressionable youth. Marketers, manufacturers, and other corporate entities use the reconnaissance provided by the likes of the Intelligence Group to capitalize on the manipulability of teen identity development. They, like social scientists and psychologists in the United States, recognize that the teen years are an important period in which one begins to develop into the type of adult they will become. During this period, many of the desires, wants, values, tastes, and aspects of identity will be solidified. From the corporate perspective, if they can make youth identify with their product and make it an integral part of their future identities, then they will profit for decades to come. Reebok is betting on reggaetón to help them brand their product with young Latin@s. They introduced their Daddy Yankee athletic shoe in the summer of 2006 (De Luca 2006). The Cuervoton talent contest, created in 2006 by Jose Cuervo, makers of tequila, is another recent example of how corporations are attempting to brand their products using the popularity of reggaetón. The contest, held in cities with large Latin@ populations, is designed to find the best reggaetón talent in the United States (Emerick 2006). For Jose Cuervo, the contests will further expose the young audience and participants to their products. Importantly, Jose Cuervo is a client of the Intelligence Group. Tony Hernandez, CEO of Latino Broadcasting, explains why Univision and others began to “flip” stations to reggaetón, stating in an interview that “most

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Spanish-language stations . . . weren’t targeting the lucrative teen and 20’s market” (qtd. in Klaassen 2006). Univision executives understood that the demographic changes taking place in the United States mean that those corporations that could tap the Latin@ youth market would reap a windfall. In fact, Univision profits and market shares were up in 2005. “The company’s radio station network, Univision Radio, posted revenue of $96.9 million during the third quarter [of 2005], up from $89.9 million in the same period last year [2004]” (Veiga 2005). Management credited the growth with a rise in its share of the listening audience, particularly at its La Kalle reggaetón-formatted stations (Veiga 2005). In Chicago, La Kalle increased its share of the 18–34 year-old market by 46 percent between 2004 and 2005 (Business Wire 2005). On July 8, 2005, Univision executives switched WVIV/WVIX from the Latin pop–formatted Viva to hurban, or in their words, “reggaeton y más” (Business Wire 2005). The format change vaulted the station to a prominent place in Chicago radio. Prior to the switch to hurban in spring of 2005, WVIV/WVIX had a 5.8 percent share of the total Hispanic audience. By the winter of 2006, the new La Kalle station’s share jumped to 11.3 percent (Business Wire 2005, 22). La Kalle’s key demographic is 14–23 year-olds. About 51 percent of its audience in winter 2006 came from this demographic group (Business Wire 2005, 17). La Kalle had a 5.5 percent share of the core 18–34 year-old audience in Chicago. It was the fourth leading station in Chicago among this demographic group (Business Wire 2005, 20). Though the focus is on young Latin@s, La Kalle has a diverse audience. Its CUME score (the number of different people listening during a given day) placed it third among all Chicago stations in 2005 (Business Wire 2005, 21). Its focus on Latin@ youth directs much of La Kalle’s marketing efforts toward developing a particular sense of Latin@ youth identity in which the concepts “urban” and “street” play a prominent role. The station’s name and logo identify it with inner city Latin@ communities. The name “signifies on” the Spanish term for “the street.” Replacing the “c” with a “k” further identifies it with rough-edged, vernacular Latin@ street culture. Urban culture places an emphasis on the street and people of color who live there as tough—as survivors who can prosper in an often chaotic environment. For marketers, street style reflects a hypermasculine, aggressive perspective. At the same time it is flashy, emphasizing gold and diamond jewelry, other high-status symbols, and the latest in-style clothing. According to Tele Guía de Chicago (2005), La Kalle is the best name for the station because it defines the style of music of the artists the station plays (“Es el nombre que mejor define el estilo de música creado por los artistas que están siendo escuchado en dicha radiodifusora”). WVIV/WVIX promotional director and weekday afternoon DJ David Miranda agrees, and states further that it is the perfect name because it describes the identity of the artists played

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on the station (“Es la denominación perfecta que caracteriza el formato de música de la estación, así como la identidad que caracteriza a los artistas presentados aquí”). The decision to flip Viva to “La Kalle” resulted from attempts by Univision Radio executives to profit from the growing Latin@ youth market in Chicago. La Kalle DJ Latino Omarcillo (Ezgar Ramos) details how Univision made the decision to flip Viva to La Kalle. Omarcillo explains that Viva was struggling for survival during the early 2000s. Chicago’s sister station in New York City was also feeling pressure to produce. Radio programmer JD Gonzalez decided to hit the streets and find out what Latin@s wanted to hear. Ramos stated that Gonzalez “discovered that there was a huge need to cater to today’s US Latinos, first generation bilinguals, who were finding music from the streets, ‘reggaetón’ a lot more appealing.” Univision officials who were at first skeptical saw that Clear Channel was having success with their hurban stations. They eventually began flipping stations. Chicago was the second Univision station to switch to hurban programming.8 Part of advertising strategy is to have consumers identify with the product and/ or the actors. La Kalle attempts to attract young Latin@s. An important aspect of their overall marketing strategy is the “Soy la Kalle” campaign. With this phrase, La Kalle is able to tap into Latin@ urban youth identity and connect it to their radio station and the music they play. Listeners who proclaim, “Soy Colombiano, Soy La Kalle” or “Soy Cubana, Soy la Kalle” identify with a Latin@ street identity, their country of origin, latinidad, and the radio station. Ezgar Ramos explained that employees at Univision took a successful marketing phrase of the U.S. Army and retooled it to fit their needs. Ramos states, “Officials in New York City came up with an idea to use a well publicized phrase known as ‘I am the Army’ which is used as a marketing tool by the U.S. Army. All we did was change a few words and struck gold. La Kalle listeners all over the country rapidly grabbed the phrase and identified their cultural background.” La Kalle officials were able to valorize a lifestyle and associate their product with it. With this simple yet powerful phrase, La Kalle officials are able to conflate young, impressionable listeners’ racial and generational identities with the radio station and reggaetón music. At the same time, they are able to sell a lifestyle that has at its core the conspicuous consumption of clothes, jewelry, cars, women, sex, alcohol, and similar products. La Kalle and other advertisers use knowledge gained from sources such as the Intelligence Group to create and disseminate a version of Latin@ identity that requires Latin@s to be consumers.

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Youth on Latin@ Identity and Latin@ Music

In the spring of 2006, as part of participant observation of reggaetón in Chicago, I had numerous conversations with fourteen Latin@ university students (six women and eight men).9 Twelve were Mexican or Mexican American, one was Puerto Rican, and the other Cuban. They used a variety of labels to identify themselves, including Hispanic, Latino, Tejano, and Mexican. I wanted to discern the meaning of “Latin@” to these students. I engaged them in conversations related to what makes someone Latin@ and what makes them Latin@. As expected, they often listed Spanish-language use, religion, culture, and country of origin or birth as the things that make one Latin@. When asked what makes them Latin@, nine students simply stated, “culture.” Eight students responded that one’s (or one’s family’s) country of origin or “blood” made them Latin@. Half of the students remarked that language and religion were important components of their latinidad. Importantly, “pride” was central to their identities. The conflation of race and ethnicity is common in popular understanding of the concepts. Essentialist conceptions of ethnicity connect it to biological notions of race. The argument is that one has a certain biological makeup and therefore belongs to a certain cultural group. The students often stated that blood or ancestry determined their culture. When initially asked, eight of the fourteen suggested that latinidad resulted at least in part from “blood.” For many racialized ethnic groups, symbols become important markers of in- or out-group status. Groups who are threatened with assimilation, or who have assimilated and lost much of their traditional cultural practices are especially likely to focus on symbols that mark them as distinct or remind them of their past. This symbolic ethnicity is important to marginalized groups who seek to carve out spaces for their continuing development and survival as distinct peoples. Phrases, fashion, iconography, and other codes take on disproportionate importance (Nagel 1997). For many Latin@s the Spanish language often serves as a symbol of their culture and ethnic identity. As Padilla (1985) notes, even when Latin@s rarely use Spanish, it remains an important marker of ethnic difference. Raquel Rivera (2003), examining the use of Spanish in rap by East Coast Puerto Ricans, argues that their linguistic practices distinguish them as mainland Puerto Ricans, distinct from other U.S. citizens and non–Puerto Rican rap artists. However, it is not their Spanish speaking that distinguishes them, but the way in which they speak English with a certain slang, accent, and sprinklings of Spanglish that identify them as Puerto Ricans. The responses to my inquiries about what constitutes latinidad indicate similar relationships between language use and these Chicago youths’ sense of themselves

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as Latin@. One Latino said that being Latino meant “your heritage and remembering where you come from. This means speaking your language.” He stated further that “I represent my ethnicity by speaking my language, never denying who I am, and always being proud to say I am Mexican.” For this Latino, latinidad meant having pride in his identity and never denying his identity, which he links closely with Spanish-language use. However, for him, biology trumps culture; one does not have to speak Spanish to be Latin@ since “blood” is the most important characteristic of being Latin@. A young U.S.-born, English-speaking Mexican female student stated that she represents her ethnicity by speaking Spanish. Another U.S.-born bilingual Mexican stated that “I let it be known that I am Latina. I speak the language.” One Mexican respondent who is primarily an English speaker answered that being Latino had to do with “speaking in a particular way,” referring to both English and Spanish speaking. He affirms both Rivera’s and Padilla’s arguments that English usage distinguishes Latin@s, and that Spanish use is often symbolic. The creators of hurban radio stations recognize that third- and fourth-generation Latin@s often prefer English and English-language media. Hurban radio attracts more English-dominant Hispanics than almost all other radio targeting Latin@s. According to Arbitron, 35 percent of the hurban radio stations’ listening audience are English-dominant. Other formats targeting Latin@s draw between 7 and 18 percent. The exceptions are Tejanoformatted stations, which attract a large English-dominant audience of 36 percent (Arbitron 2006, 14). While language is the primary symbolic marker of Latin@ ethnicity, students also discussed other ways in which they mark themselves as Latin@. This response from a Latino exemplifies how other things symbolize latinidad for him: “by listening to Spanish music . . . and having a particular haircut.” Colors, flags, and nationalistic iconography represent nations and ethnicities. Many wear certain colors, surround themselves with key phrases, and even tattoo themselves with icons such as the Aztec calendar or the tripartite face representing the new race created as a result of Spanish and indigenous miscegenation. A Mexican Latina stated: “I do represent my ethnicity by wearing symbols like the Aztec calendar or the colors of the Mexican flag.” Another common way in which Latin@s and other subordinated ethnic groups distinguish themselves is studying their history and cultural traditions. One young Mexican man stated that “I know my history on Mexico as a way of knowing those who fought for my freedom and respect and understand the culture I am living.” Others reject this notion of symbolic ethnicity. They say things like the following: “I don’t think ethnicity is represented by the fashion that is chosen,” or “What you wear and how you speak does not define you.” For some, culture is a key determinant of latinidad, but one does not have to listen to certain kinds of music or eat certain foods. Their definition of Latin@ is not dependent on any one thing. To them, culture

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is not reducible to simple formulas or adding up a certain number of “Latin@” traits. A nineteen-year-old Mexicana said, “I think everything put together makes us Latina or Latino. Whether it be the food you eat or the music you listen to, it makes you who we are.” Another said that “Being Latina to me is everything including language, religion, culture, traditions, music, and origin.” She added later that what makes her Latina is “my culture which my life has been structured around.” Another nineteen-year-old Mexicana said that “I believe that everything that has to do with Latin America makes someone a Latina or Latino. That is including language, music, religions, customs and beliefs.” Indicating a belief in a positive definition of ethnicity akin to Pulido’s argument that ethnic identity requires an active, creative, positive emphasis, three students independently talked about pride as an important component of Latin@ identity. For example, a young U.S.-born Mexican stated that “Being a Latina means to have your origins from Latin America, but it also means to take pride in what you are.” Later she added, “The one thing that defines a Latino is his or her pride in being one.” For many people of color, their musical, literary, or other artistic traditions provide a point of pride and positive self-image. For young Latin@s today, many types of music are considered authentic Latin@ creations. The most popular of these are Latin rap, rock en español, and reggaetón. Latin@ students showed a wide range of interests. All of the students said that among their favorite musical styles were those performed in English, and only two did not like music performed in Spanish. They preferred a wide variety of musics, including classical, rock (in English and Spanish), salsa, regional Mexican, jazz, blues, R & B, reggae, and even disco. The most popular genre was rap. This finding is not surprising given the popularity of rap among all youth in the United States, as well as the findings of the Latino Intelligence Report that showed that half of young Latin@s listed rap as their favorite genre. Ten students stated that rap was among their favorite types of music. Nine were fans of rock music, and nine of reggaetón. Eight mentioned R & B, and five mentioned regional Mexican styles, salsa, or bachata to be among their favorites. Given the focus of this study, I asked which radio stations were their favorites. Their radio-station listening preference mirrored their eclectic tastes in music. La Kalle was the most commonly mentioned. Eleven stated that they listened to La Kalle. Nine stated that they listened to radio station 96.3 (B 96), a pop-music station that emphasizes hip-hop and rap. Their logo claims that they play “hits and hip hop.” Other favorites play a combination of pop, rap, and R & B, or regional Mexican styles. Many of the students feel that Latin music, including reggaetón, is an important part of their identities. Responding to a question about the relationship between reggaetón and Latin@ identity, one young man stated, “Yes, many Hispanics listen to

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only Spanish music. Also, many white people don’t listen to rap/ hip hop. And black people don’t really listen to Spanish music.” For this Mexican, listening to reggaetón reflects an interest in his latinidad, just as listening to certain types of music reflects one’s whiteness or blackness. One Mexicana feels strongly that Latin music is closely related to Latin@ identity. For her, “[Latin@] singers sing these songs for their own people. They talk only about their people.” For her, “talking about their people” in Latin music is important, especially because Latin@s are not often depicted in U.S. popular culture, and when they are, it is often in unflattering ways. Speaking to this point, another female student replied that “I think that there is a relationship between racial identity and music because for me I think reggaetón gave us Latinos a voice in the industry. Before we were all generalized and put in a category that us Latinos only like Banda and Duranguense stuff [northern Mexican musics]. But now it’s like we’re stepping out of the cliché people have about us.” She references banda and duranguense music because the images that many non-Latin@s have of Latin@s, particularly of people of Mexican descent, are as simple country people from backwards nations. For her, reggaetón presents Latin@s in a very different light. Latin@ youth as depicted in reggaetón are not “simple peasants” (the irony of her stereotyping peasants was unfortunately lost on her), but urban, sophisticated people who are as comfortable with U.S. technology, fashion, language, and traditions as they are with the customs, culture, and languages of their countries of origin. Moreover, reggaetón as a music created for young urban Latin@s about and for young urban Latin@s helps them “step out of the cliché people have about” them. For her, reggaetón is self-expression and self-representation. It is about Latin@ youth saying, “This is who we are.” It is representin’. Further, Latino music often allows young people new insight into latinidad. It can inspire people to explore and learn more about cultures and traditions that have been lost to them. One young Latino spoke fondly of Latino music, saying that it “allowed me to dig into and understand the Hispanic heritage. It brought me back to my language and my true ethnicity.” Importantly for him, “the music talks about culture and life’s events in the language of that culture.” Some respondents feel that music, including reggaetón, has little to do with their identity as Latin@s. Some who understand Latin@ identity in biological or racial terms feel “that there is no link between music and racial identity.” Commodified musics distort Latin@ life and offer no real insight or sense of pride. One student commonly characterized reggaetón as “sell-out music.” In other words, he believes that reggaetón has become commodified to such a degree that it undermines urban Latin@ youth. He argues that it presents a version of life to young Latin@s that only involves fun, sex, partying, and fighting. Reggaetón represents Latin@ culture for

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sale. Agreeing with this sentiment, another student stated that “sometimes [music can reflect ethnic or racial identity], but I think it’s mainly media-based and I think that these constraints are slowly being broken.” Though a bit more hopeful about the impact of reggaetón, this student feels that the music is not necessarily reflective of Latin@ life, but of a media-conceived notion of young latinidad. For the young Latin@s I spoke with, reggaetón represents a sense of pride and positive self-representation, and a source of fun. While reggaetón influences their self-identity, it is, after all, a form of entertainment. It is a way to let loose, dance, explore their sexuality, and celebrate. At the same time, Univision, Clear Channel, and others attempt to draw a direct line connecting Latin@ youth identity and reggaetón and associated products. Music-industry executives attempt to define latinidad as a set of behaviors and values in line with conspicuous consumption of the sort that earns them billions of dollars. For them, if latinidad can in some significant way be equated with a sense of style and worldview expressed in the popular reggaetón songs and associated with reggaetón stars, Latin@ youth will be compelled to buy jewelry, clothes, cars, music, alcohol, and other products. Demonstrating agency and a sense of control over their ethnic and racial identities, the university students I spoke with see latinidad in much more complex ways than Univision, Clear Channel, and the Youth Intelligence Group. To them, music and other forms of expressive culture reflect and help shape their experiences and identities. However, they also see language use, pride, experience, ancestry, and many other things as being characteristic of their latinidad. Most see themselves as more than the clothes they wear, the music they listen to, or the things they have.

Mexicanidad, Latinidad, and Afro-Caribbean Music

“Latin@” is a panethnic identity that includes a wide array of nationalities, cultures, races, and regions of the Americas. Each Latin@ subgroup has its own distinct cultural traditions, including unique musical and oral traditions. The two largest Latin@ groups, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans, speak different versions of Spanish; differ phenotypically (racially), with African phenotypes being much more prominent in Puerto Rican mestizaje; and have very distinct musical traditions. Mexican musics such as norteño and tejano are primarily based on a European musical tradition, while mariachi and son jarocho exemplify an indigenous, European, and African mix.10 Puerto Rican musics, like other Afro-Latin@ musics, exhibit strong African influences. In many ways the musical traditions of each group are far apart. Yet, reggaetón, clearly part of the African diasporic traditions of the Caribbean, has become a common musical subculture for Mexicans as well as Caribbean Latin@s.

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This leads to me to ask: Is reggaetón understood to be an African music? How do youth of Mexican descent in Chicago view the racial composition of Latin@s, including themselves? What role does a multitiered ethnicity play for Mexican youth in reconciling the racial and musical differences between distinct Latin@ groups? How do Mexican youth who mostly do not see themselves as having black roots relate to African-diasporic cultural practices? Most Mexican American youth I spoke with stated that Caribbean musics were among their favorites. The musics they mentioned are sonically and musically very different from the regional Mexican musics that they and other Mexican Americans listen to customarily. Music of the Caribbean is heavily influenced by Africa and the African diaspora. Moreover, much of the appeal of reggaetón to Latin@s is its “defiant embrace of blackness and its connections to hip-hop’s and reggae’s race-based cultural politics” (Rivera, Marshall, and Pacini Hernandez 2009, 9). The important question, then, is how do these Mexican, non-Caribbean Latin@s relate to Afro-Latino music, and what does this say about their Latin@ identity? The young Mexicans I spoke with for this study did not see reggaetón or themselves as black, Afro-Latin@, or African-derived. They pointed out that many reggaetón artists are not phenotypically black. They also downplay blackness for a generic latinidad that is brown or mixed. Anti-black prejudice and Africa’s invisibility in Mexican history are likely causes of these youths’ overlooking of the Africanness apparent in their culture and music. The emphasis on a generic, urban, cool Latin@ identity presented by the reggaetón culture industry also limits the ability of these Mexican Latin@s to acknowledge blackness in their cultural practices and identities. While many are unable to recognize it, reggaetón and a new Latin@ identity value Africanness in ways that Latin@s have not always wanted to embrace.11 The phenotype of reggaetón artists, their African-influenced language use, their music, and their dance—among many other things—reveal Africanness at the root of reggaetón’s urban latinidad. There has long been a conflict about race in Latin American and Latin@ identities. Most nations in Latin America have denied the importance of the African presence and influence on national life and culture, and when they have acknowledged it, most often it has been to denigrate Afro-Latin@s and their influence. The Mexican experience has been one of denying African influence and whitewashing national culture. Only recently, in 1992, has the Mexican government officially recognized the importance of Africa to its hybrid (mestizo) culture. What the government has called la tercera raíz (the third root) has brought attention to Mexico’s African population and the influences of Africans on Mexico. Still, many Mexicans continue to deny the presence of Africa in Mexican culture and/or continue to hold stereotypes about black populations. The attraction of many Mexican youths to reggaetón has the potential to break

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through the racism and denial of the African presence that has been characteristic of Mexican national culture. The aesthetics of reggaetón and its origins in the Caribbean mark it as part of the African diaspora. Mexican youth who say, “Soy Mexico, Soy La Kalle” are linking themselves to Afro-Latin@ cultures. Those who identify as Latin@, especially in the way it is understood in today’s urban Latin@ culture, are identifying with the African diaspora—though they may not know it. This does not mean that listening to and participating in reggaetón musical culture will dissolve racisms and anti-black sentiments at individual or community levels. It does suggest the possibility for opening more complex understandings of Latin@s and overcoming anti-black racism.

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Latin Lovers and Other Troubling Gender Stereotypes

Importantly, my discussions with young Latin@s revealed little about the gendered nature of latinidad. In fact, both Latinos and Latinas had virtually nothing to say on the subject. While this may initially seem to be a dead end in terms of research findings regarding Latin@ youth identity, the fact that students thought little about gender in a musical genre that can be described as over the top in its masculinist perspective reveals a great deal about how sexism, machismo, and phallocentric heteronormativity remains the invisible standard among Latin@ youth. The gender discourse found in the lyrics and performance of reggaetón artists is patriarchal. Male voices predominate in the genre. Most reggaetón artists, and especially the most popular and most successful reggaetón artists, are men. A few women, most notably Ivy Queen, have earned success as lead singers or rappers. However, most female performers in reggaetón are dancers or backup singers who play supportive and decorative roles. The backup singers often sing about sex and sexuality with a sexually charged delivery. They often deliver their lines while moaning. They ask the male performer to give it (sex) to them harder or have sex with them in any way they want. Alexandra T. Vasquez (2009, 304) explains: “Reggaeton allots little to no space for women’s voices. When heard in recordings, women performers usually lay down a “dame / dale” response to a phallocentric call. These responses are made manifest via choral begging that modulates between a request of ‘dame’ (give me) and ‘dale’ (go ahead) of the male vocalist.” Felix Jimenez’s analysis of the career of Glory provides graphic detail to the claim of female marginality and their hypersexualized nature in reggaetón. Glory is one of the most recognizable voices in reggaetón, yet few outside of the most diehard fans know her name. She is responsible for two of the most memorable lines

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in reggaetón: “Dáme más gasolina” and “Suelta como gabete.” In Daddy Yankee’s international hit “Gasolina,” Glory urges the macho antagonist to give her more of what she wants—gasolina standing in for his sexual prowess. In Don Omar’s hit “Dale Don Dale,” Glory affirms Omar’s sexualizing of her. Omar tells Glory that he hears she is a promiscuous woman. She affirms his suspicions, telling him that she is “as loose as a shoestring (“suelta como gabete”). These important lines and the “vocalizations of perennial arousal” (Jimenez 2009, 232) delivered by female singers are central to the musical aesthetic and overall popularity of reggaetón. Yet, these women, like Glory, rarely receive any recognition or much compensation. Jimenez shows how Glory’s career exemplifies how women are marginalized and subordinated in reggaetón and used as a foil to illustrate male sexual power. According to Marshall (2009) much of the hypersexualized nature of reggaetón can be traced to its increasing commercial success and attachment to club culture. “As the music moved into the mainstream marketplace,” stereotypes of the hypersexed Latin lover and oversexed Latina dominated the lyrics and culture of reggaetón. Marshall explains that “grafted onto the genre’s dembow template, the music was increasingly produced and promoted as the soundtrack of ‘perreo’ and ‘bellaqueo’ (i.e., doggy-style dance and horniness), of highly sexualized dancing and highly sexualized objects of male gaze” (49). The music and culture became about sex—more specifically about male fantasies of sex. Secondly, since men create the images and lyrics of reggaetón, the representation of maleness and femaleness comes exclusively from a male perspective. This perspective is masculinist in nature, with men being dominant and women being passive and subordinate. Common stereotypes about women’s roles in relationships abound in the lyrics. Of course, reggaetón is not monolithically sexist or patriarchal. Young female reggaetón aficionadas resist the simple and stereotypical notions that young men have of them. Additionally, the very popular veteran reggaetón artist Ivy Queen presents a different image of women in many of her songs’ narratives. Ivy Queen’s songs discuss women as active, intelligent, fun-loving, and sexy.12 Ivy Queen and her friends are in control of the situation and themselves. Ivy Queen does have a sexual persona, but her sexuality is on her terms. It is not dictated by men or a patriarchal society. This brief discussion of gender representation in reggaetón suggests many questions about Latin@ identity. Can young urban Latin@ identity develop in ways that moves their thinking of themselves away from the strict gender roles and stereotypes found throughout the cultural field, and in reggaetón in particular? Is it possible to have an urban Latin@ identity and reggaetón subculture that values gender and sexuality difference? Unfortunately, as a male-dominated genre within a patriarchal culture and nation that values toughness, hypermasculinity, and hypersexuality, it

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seems that the notion of young urban latinidad resulting from reggaetón would be dominated by the exploitative nature of patriarchal understandings of gender.

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The Struggle for Latin@ Identity

Reggaetón is indeed a powerful force influencing the development of Latin@ identity among some youth. Padilla shows that Latin@ identity is political, situational, and estadunidense (of the United States). Pulido and Morales add that Latin@ identity is positive and empowering, rooted in the worldview that Morales dubs “Spanglish.” Capitalist imperatives also influence how latinidad is defined. Through the marketing of reggaetón and related behaviors as the definitive Latin@ style, corporations attempt to conflate conspicuous consumption, hypermasculinity, and sex with Latin@ identity in the minds of Latin@ youth. At one and the same time, corporate reggaetón undermines the political struggle for rights that has brought Latin@s together and opened space for the voicing of urban Latin@ youth. In conclusion, I want to present some answers to the question “What’s at stake in the struggle for a Latin@ identity?” In other words, why does this matter? A Latin@ identity such as that represented by the tag line “Soy Latino, Soy La Kalle” may do more to confuse than to clarify identity. The lumping together of people from twenty-four different nations and dozens of cultures under one banner of conspicuously consuming urban cool limits the myriad possibilities of being Latin@. The dominant corporate culture industries attempt to frame the discourse around a given musical subculture and what it means to listen to certain types of music. The corporate shapers of hurban music respond to the data provided to them by groups like Arbitron and the Youth Intelligence Group that advise that their future economic prosperity lies with connecting to and manipulating the fast-growing urban Latin@ market. For Univision executives, imbuing Latin@s with a street identity defined in part by their version of reggaetón music will provide enormous profits. They hope that for many youth, being Latin@ will mean that one listens to La Kalle, buys certain music and other products, and develops a worldview and value system that define them by the commodities they purchase and not the values of their Latin@ cultures of origin. If the corporate recording industry can be the gatekeepers of young urban latinidad, then they can control a large part of the purchasing power of Latin@ youth. With the ingenious support provided by organizations such as the Intelligence Group, and the withering of cultural institutions dedicated to the dynamic evolution of Latin@ cultures, corporations gain the upper hand in how latinidad is defined. Reggaetón is at the heart of the struggle for the definition of latinidad. Reggaetón as commodified popular culture reflects capitalist values and a homogenization of

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diverse cultures and ways of being. At the same time, with the creation of a new musical subculture and the celebration of difference by marginalized, racialized urban youth, reggaetón as self-representation presents positive possibilities. Reggaetón as practiced by many Latin@ youth resists dominant definitions of latinidad. As one Latina student suggested, reggaetón reflects a new, young Latin@ urban culture that defies the stereotypes held by many in the larger U.S. society. Reggaetón as created, practiced, and listened to by many local artists, in local dance and concert venues, and on alternative radio programs, especially on the Internet, illustrates a subculture and identity being developed partly outside of capitalist institutions and value systems. Even the reggaetón artists that do receive airtime on corporate hurban radio often defy capitalist attempts to circumscribe their culture and creativity.13 Thus, while capitalist imperatives and values try to enclose the culture and the discourse around its creation, youth as active, creative subjects develop the subculture based, in part, on their needs and experiences. Unfortunately, the hyperconsumption evident in youth cultures such as reggaetón and hip-hop suggests that their efforts to resist capitalist-imposed identities have failed. This failure likely results from a lack of understanding and critique of capitalism within the subculture, and the success of capitalist ideology in instilling the consumer ethic and the overvaluing of commodities in a large part of the populace, especially young people. Reggaetón as a common Latin@ creation may help diverse Latin@s overcome animosity between them and create alliances. Today’s political-economic environment, like that which Padilla examined in 1970s and 1980s Chicago, is such that alliances among different Latin@s and with other people of color and working-class people are desired if we hope to establish a new, more equal and free society. Reggaetón may help Latin@s see similarities that will bring them together for common political action. Its privileging of the Spanish language, Latin@s, pride, and mestizaje can lead to diverse Latin@s seeing themselves as allies. As suggested by Felix Padilla (1985) concerning Latin@s in Chicago, Latin@ identity will be forever situational. Its nature and definition will change as conditions in Latin@ communities, the nation, and the world change. What constitutes Latin@ culture, Latin@ behavior, and latinidad generally depends on political, cultural, social, economic, and geopolitical configurations. Reggaetón as part of the cultural landscape in Latin America, the Caribbean, and the United States will influence the nature of young, urban Latin@ identity in Chicago and elsewhere. The young Latin@s with whom I spoke testified to the fact that reggaetón is not the definitive marker of latinidad. It may hold their attention, influence their fashion and tastes, but it doesn’t necessarily define them. Nor do the billions of dollars spent on marketing and advertising by Univision, Clear Channel, and others translate into a fixed notion of Latin@ identity. Their ingenuity and economic power determines how reggaetón

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and urban Latin@ style are presented to most of us, but they cannot determine how Latin@ youth with their myriad experiences and individuality interpret and understand the music and culture. Examinations of reggaetón can help us understand Latin@ and Chican@ identity today, as well as provide insight into how a new generation of Latin@s relate to blackness. Reggaetón’s indebtedness to Jamaica is obvious in its foundational “dembow” dancehall rhythm.14 Dancehall, like hip-hop, has strong working-class and pro-black politics. As Marshall, Rivera, and Hernandez (2009, 7) point out, “dancehall tends to be associated with a militant blackness and a particular class position.” Reggaetón’s sound emphasizes its African roots, signaling a new latinidad based not solely or simply on nationality, ethnicity, or race, but on its transnational, transcultural nature.

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PA RT 4

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Hip-Hop and Justice

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CHA PTER 9

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Teaching Hip-Hop: A Pedagogy for Social Justice

Education does more than help students memorize facts and formulas or prepare them for the workforce. It builds identity and prepares us for citizenship. Students of color have been denied opportunities to create and experiment with identity in Eurocentric classrooms that rarely affirm the existence and importance of African, American indigenous, Asian, and mixed-race peoples. Moreover, in a hostile environment where there have been consistent attacks on youth of color and their culture, schools do not help students develop critical thinking skills that help them resist these attacks and develop alternatives. Additionally, traditional classroom education in the United States is a top-down endeavor in which student strengths, language, and worldview are ignored in favor of a rigid and narrow set of pedagogical goals that include homogeneity, conformity, and adherence to rules of discipline, grammar, and worldview. From the perspective of the revolutionary Left and social-justice activists, capitalist education serves to normalize inequality and authoritarianism, reinforcing the existing power relations between the classes and benefiting the wealthy. I argue that utilizing student strengths, cultures, and perspectives we can create a hip-hop pedagogy of social justice that develops students’ critical thinking and language skills and knowledge in multiple academic fields. This critical pedagogy uses n

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hip-hop culture along with rap lyric texts and other aspects of black and Latin@ oral and literary histories to empower students to understand themselves and their world better, to develop their voice and validate their lives. Hip-hop can be used to assist in creating a social justice perspective that challenges injustice and oppression. Hiphop and other cultural texts are examined alongside feminist, decolonial, antiracist, anarchist, Marxist, and other critical scholarship and activism. My three-pronged social justice agenda includes a pedagogy of the erotic, pedagogy of racial justice, and pedagogy of peace. The work of Paolo Freire, bell hooks, and Marc Lamont Hill helped form the theoretical foundation of my hip-hop-based pedagogy. This essay examines how I have used hip-hop to inspire and empower students, teach academic content, and develop social justice awareness, thinking, and action. In addition, and importantly for this book, teaching hip-hop from this perspective enables students of Mexican origin to go beyond the limiting definitions of themselves that they encounter in schools, the media, and at home. Such a pedagogy can help them make ties to other peoples throughout the country and the world. A hip-hop pedagogy of social justice has the potential for the development of an internationalist perspective that challenges nationalism, cultural nationalism, and taken-for-granted notions of race, gender, and sexuality, and that promotes resistance to capitalism, colonialism, and other authoritarian systems.

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Generating Engaged Hip-Hop Pedagogies

Hip-Hop-Based Education (HHBE) has been developed over the past decade in many universities throughout the United States. In U.S. cities, education faculty and graduate students use hip-hop in elementary and secondary classrooms. Since the mid-1990s, courses on hip-hop have been offered at many colleges and universities. However, few studies have been conducted on the effectiveness of hip-hop in the college classroom. This chapter examines how I generated hip-hop pedagogies in a number of college and university classroom settings. To begin, we should examine and understand how HHBE has been conducted. Additionally, the insights of Paolo Freire, bell hooks, and Marc Lamont Hill illustrate how a hip-hop pedagogy at the university level can succeed in attaining educational goals. My goals include developing a critical analytic perspective in students and providing them with concepts, theories, and a vocabulary to understand and change their society. This perspective examines social structures and systems and analyzes power. Additionally, my educational approach aspires to empower students to draw their own conclusions and seek more and better knowledge of our world and self so that they might begin to act upon our world in equitable, antiracist, and just ways.

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Bell hooks’s engaged pedagogy expands upon the work of Paolo Freire and other educators. Freire notes that student teachers must be validated through generative themes. He argues, in essence, for a resource-based approach that begins the learning process from student strengths. From this perspective, we can see student culture as a resource from which to develop and expand their skills and knowledge, instead of as a hindrance to learning. Hooks (1994a) argues that “Any radical pedagogy must insist that everyone’s presence is acknowledged. . . . Often before this process can begin there has to be some deconstruction of the traditional notion that only the professor is responsible for classroom dynamics” (8). Instead of the traditional banking method of imparting knowledge, teachers should help students in a process of self-actualization (15). An engaged pedagogy values student experience as much as it values academic knowledge. Being engaged means to see the relationships between one’s life, the lives of others, and academic pursuits. In order to do this, the classroom must be as democratic as possible (hooks 1994a, 39). Moreover, the classroom should be understood as a community in which each member is recognized and valued (40–41). Given the denial of community and exalting of individuality in our society and our educational system, this process of creating a community space in which to learn through engaged pedagogy is difficult. Students expect the banking method of education in which the professor deposits knowledge into them, and they often resist having to think critically and self-reflexively. A hip-hop-based approach can begin to overcome these obstacles in the classroom. Following the lead of Freire and hooks, Marc Lamont Hill (2009, 1) argues that we should see the “significance of hip-hop not only as a popular culture text, but also as a rich site for complex forms of identity work.” Traditional public schooling in the United States ignores or undermines the identities of students of color. Elenes (2001) argues for a border/transformative pedagogical practice that draws from Chican@ experiences. Elenes theorizes a “transformative practice that seeks to change the conditions that limit and undervalue marginalized identities and cultures” (691). As many have noted, including Hill (2009, 8), culturally relevant pedagogical approaches appeal “to the experiences, cultural orientations, values and worldviews of students in order to effectuate greater educational outcomes.” Stovall (2006, 586) notes that an HHBE helps develop “relationships based on familiarity and importance, [and] students have the greater propensity to grasp concepts originally considered foreign or uninteresting.” Researchers have shown how HHBE can transform a classroom from an alienating, “white” space into a place of recognition and possibility (Duncan-Andrade and Morrell 2005). In separate studies, Hill (2009) and Stovall (2006) found that HHBE allowed students to “craft new spaces and ways to offer their voices” (Hill 2009, 10)

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at the same time that it can reinforce canonical knowledge, pique student interest, and develop critical thinking and consciousness. HHBE provides opportunities for students to claim leadership and authority (Hill, 35). In Freire’s terms, they can become student-teachers. Hip-hop texts enable students “to see themselves as individuals worthy of representation within the public sphere” (Hill, 41). Hip-hop can be used in a number of ways to enhance student learning and overall development. In my classes, I have taught important aspects of hip-hop music, culture, and history; used hip-hop to teach other subject matter, including critical thinking; and used hip-hop to help legitimate the values, beliefs, and experiences of students of color. Hill (2009) labels these different pedagogical strategies as “pedagogies about hip hop,” “pedagogies with hip hop,” and “pedagogies of hip hop.” He explains that pedagogies about hip-hop utilized “educational spaces to analyze, critique, and (re)produce hip-hop texts” (122). In my course “Hip Hop and Society,” I rely on a pedagogy about hip-hop that uses hip-hop texts, including movies, videos, music, and transcribed lyrics, to examine its history. This includes its numerous antecedents in African-diasporic cultural traditions, the social and political contexts in which it emerges and grows, and the values, ideas, and worldviews it expresses. Given that it is a course offered by the sociology department, the focus is on how society influences hip-hop and how hip-hop influences society. We examine important themes, including gender, sexism and masculinity, violence, economics and poverty, politics, and race relations and racism. In other courses, I have used hip-hop texts to teach numerous topics. My approach is to use hip-hop to make the topic more relevant and interesting to the students. Hill (2009, 123) writes that pedagogies with hip-hop involve “using hip-hop texts to enhance student motivation, transmit subject area knowledge, and develop habits of mind appropriate for learning. . . . Hip hop texts can be used to navigate traditional academic subject matter.” Hip-hop has been important in transmitting information and piquing student interest in a diverse array of sociology and interdisciplinary classes, including religion, introduction to sociology, diversity in United States society, gender and society, race and ethnicity, courses on Chican@s and Latin@s, and deviance. For example, in teaching introductory issues related to class, along with Thorstein Veblen’s notion of conspicuous consumption and how it might apply today, I use Kanye West’s popular song “All Falls Down.” In the song, West examines a young woman trying to make decisions about going to college, which will likely lead to increased earning power and stability, or becoming a beautician, which will provide her enough money to purchase the latest hot fashions. West describes the young woman as “a single black female addicted to retail.” In the rest of the song, he details how conspicuous consumption is often used as a coping mechanism for poverty and the pain of racism.

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In courses in which we discuss the prison system and deviance, hip-hop lyrics provide a wealth of material from which I teach important concepts. When prisons are examined in the courses “Deviance” and “Introduction to Sociology,” I have combined hip-hop texts with an Angela Davis speech on the prison industrial complex and scholarly writings. In this way, three approaches are brought to bear on the subject: Davis’s activism, the rap group Psycho Realm’s personal experiences, and scholarly research. Each brings a different lens through which to understand the problem. Both introductory sociology and deviance texts provide students with a number of theoretical approaches to understanding deviance and the criminal-justice system. Marxist and anarchist approaches argue that the inequities of capitalism put a large number of the poor into marginalized and oppressed positions, leading many to turn toward illegal activities and illicit entrepreneurship (drug dealing, prostitution, and bootleg clothes, entertainment, and other products). Thus, street crime is a result of the position of the poor vis-à-vis capitalism. In addition, proponents of these approaches urge the breaking of oppressive laws and celebrate “outlaw” figures. Sutherland’s (1947) “differential association” theory demonstrates how people learn to commit crimes as a result of their socialization. Angela Davis’s analysis of the criminal-justice system in her lecture The Prison Industrial Complex (1997) uses a perspective that allows us to talk about Marxist approaches and differential association. However, Davis delves deeper into the topic of the prison system, and analyzes it as part of the global capitalist system that builds prisons in which to warehouse its rebellious, troublesome, or excess labor force. She points out that racism is a significant factor in the incarceration of two million people in the United States. The bulk of the two million are black and Latin@ citizens and undocumented immigrants. She ties the overrepresentation of blacks and Latin@s in prisons to racist stereotypes, an oppressive economic system that leaves the working masses with few jobs that pay living wages, fear of immigrants, and policing and legislative strategies aimed at jailing people of color. Of course, numerous hip-hop texts examine deviance, crime, and the justice system. While our textbooks provide us with an academic and theoretical understanding of the topic, and Davis presents an activist-intellectual approach, hip-hop gives us a “street” perspective straight from the people most affected by crime and crime policy. Black and brown young men encounter the criminal-justice system more often than other groups. As a result, they often talk about these experiences in their music. Following the themes discussed by Davis, including privatization of prisons and racism, I play Psycho Realm’s song “Palaces of Exile,” in which the Chicano street rappers argue that prisons are being built for young men of color as a profit-making strategy. They discuss the manner in which prisoners are often required to work in

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prison factories and make businesses and stockholders rich. Psycho Realm’s lyrics reinforce and shed new light on the ideas presented in the other texts. Their language and aesthetic more closely resemble that of many students and therefore assist them in grasping the key concepts and ideas. Through the combination of hip-hop and more traditional classroom materials, the students acquire knowledge of important perspectives and debates in deviance and criminal justice. In many classes I utilize a “pedagogy of hip-hop.” According to Hill (2009, 120–21) “Pedagogies of hip hop reflect the various ways that hip-hop culture authorizes particular values, truth claims, and subject positions while implicitly or explicitly contesting others . . . it operates as a terrain of struggle over competing meanings, values, and truth claims.” The truth claims made about race, nation, gender, power, poverty, and sexuality that students learn through their socialization, and especially in the media, are often challenged by hip-hop texts. Students of color who learn through various media and experiences that they are less valued in United States society often relate to hip-hop because there they are valued. In fact, their culture, their bodies, and their beings are privileged in hip-hop. At the same time, many of the values expressed in hip-hop, especially corporate rap music, are undemocratic, demeaning to people of color, and limiting in their possibilities for furthering freedom and equality. Because so many corporate rap stars and other entities in the culture industries and mass media promote such values, students often internalize and incorporate them into their worldview. Hill demonstrates how we can use these texts to further a social justice agenda in the classroom. He explains that “by challenging the students’ beliefs about topics such as race, class, gender, and sexuality through their analyses of hip-hop texts, they are often forced to explain their allegiances to particular texts, perspectives, and interests” (122). Hill’s three approaches can be used in diverse educational settings with a wide array of subject matter to develop a social-justice pedagogy. In the following discussion, I propose a three-pronged social-justice pedagogy that includes a pedagogy of the erotic, a pedagogy of peace, and a pedagogy of racial justice, utilizing each of Hill’s approaches.

Pedagogy of the Erotic PORNOGRAPHY VS. THE EROTIC IN HIP HOP

A great deal of the popular culture consumed and created by youth and promoted by the culture industries today involves pornographic perspectives on sexuality and gender relations. It also teaches boys/men and girls/women to see themselves as antagonistic and opposed to one another. I propose a pedagogy of the erotic that

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interrogates representations and understandings of sexuality and gender, using hip-hop texts and other black and brown cultural products including poetry, other musical genres, and visual art. In Chicano Rap (2008a) I discussed a pedagogy of the erotic using hip-hop.1 Because a great deal of rap lyrical content, and male culture generally, depicts women as Other and pornographically, youth develop distorted and antagonistic understandings about sexuality, sexual power, and male-female relations. In my studies of representations of gender and sexuality in rap texts,2 I have found that the overwhelming majority of male rap songs that deal with women discuss sex in exploitive and compassionless ways. Women are seen as things to possess and conquer. In other words, rappers exhibit a colonial mindset in which men try to assert and demonstrate their power through competitions over the valued resource of women’s sexuality. The lyrics of Chicano/Mexicano rappers, black rappers, and Latino reggaetón artists often speak about women.3 In rap texts, women are valued for the way their bodies look and for the potential sexual services that they can provide to a man. The constant barrage of images of women partially clad, gyrating, or looking seductively into a camera undoubtedly influences the way that both girls/women and boys/men view women and their worth. It appears that our culture, including corporate rap music, has become increasingly pornographic, leaving little room for female sexual agency, the erotic, female empowerment, and female identity outside of patriarchal control. Additionally, male pornographic mindsets that often result from our patriarchal culture inhibit male growth. Young boys and men see manhood depicted as physical strength, sexual virility, emotional distance from others, and financial power. Most men, but especially men of color and those of the working class, are systematically kept from attaining an impossible masculine ideal. Men of color experience this in disproportionate numbers as the ideal hegemonic man of the United States in the twenty-first century has money and skin-color privilege that men of color cannot enjoy or use to define their masculine identities. However, men of color have often symbolically asserted their masculine privilege in their music. Boys of color who look up to musicians learn about sexuality and gender through rap music. The images and words associated with manhood in rap music are a primary source of gender socialization for boys. Rap music influences their understanding of manhood. The sources from hip-hop, corporate rap, and other cultural products that we use can deepen boys’/young men’s (and girls’/young women’s) understandings of the complexities of gender, sexuality, and sex. We can use hip-hop and rap texts to illustrate patriarchal, hegemonic perspectives as well as develop a pedagogy of the erotic that can challenge them.

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A pedagogy of the erotic in hip-hop would utilize Audre Lorde’s insights into the power of the erotic. Explaining domination, specifically patriarchal domination, Lorde (1984, 53) writes: “In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy for change. For women, this has meant a suppression of the erotic as a considered source of power and information within our lives.” Lorde argues that the erotic is a source of empowerment for women. These feelings of erotic empowerment include the sensuality and power of the body that goes beyond bodily sensation to include sensuality as worldview and as motive force for excellence. It is the creative life force that sustains and maintains. The erotic is a knowledge that challenges patriarchal control of women and their bodies. It affirms women’s power and women’s identities. In order for patriarchal dominance to continue, it must prevent this sense of empowerment among women. The degrading of women, their bodies, and their sexuality serves this purpose. Popular culture, including corporate rap music, works to distort the power of the erotic (Bragg and McFarland 2007). Rap music is one of the few sites for learning about sexuality and gender for a large and growing segment of today’s youth of color. In few other places is there such sustained discussion of these topics. A pedagogy of the erotic would utilize rap texts and already ongoing youth conversations to deepen youth understanding of sexuality by “reading” the texts alongside feminist, womanist, and new men’s studies scholarship. In numerous classrooms I have used rap texts and the poetry and music of women to discuss, analyze, and evaluate empowering perspectives concerning women and gender. Songs that at first glance seem sexist are seen differently by many. Students inevitably enjoy, and defend their right to enjoy, songs that are sexist. These songs simply depict women as sex objects for male pleasure. Additionally, these songs depict men who are only interested in bedding numerous impossibly beautiful women, or are in conflict with women who they claim treat them poorly or who want to get money out of them. Students often recognize the problematic gender representations in these songs but minimize their importance. Their defense of their enjoyment of sexist depictions is usually of two sorts: a politics of the beat (“It’s just music”) and “factual” (“There are women like that”). In many courses, I have used their familiarity with rap to interrogate heteronormative gender images and perspectives. One example includes juxtaposing songs that discuss women. The first is a well-known rap song, “A Bitch Is a Bitch,” by N.W.A. Other less virulently sexist songs that nonetheless represent women in limited and patriarchal ways are usually referenced by students or brought in by them for listening. After discussion about “A Bitch Is a Bitch” and other popular sexist rap tunes, I also play for them Nina Simone’s “Four Women” and emcee Kemo the Blaxican’s “La

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Flor.” Additionally, the poem and YouTube video “Who is Sara Baartman?” by DeDe Hunt (aka Quiet Storm) adds an important emotional element to our understanding of historical violence and exploitation of black women. We discuss how popular corporate rap shows women as simply either beautiful and sexy or problematic. “A Bitch Is a Bitch,” for example, says that “all women have a little bitch in ’em.” Bitches, according to the song, are women who refuse the control of men. They do not easily accept male advances toward them, and respond negatively to catcalls and other such behaviors in the street. In the song, Ice Cube describes this kind of bitch: “That’s why when you say “hi” she won’t say “hi.” / Are you the kind that think you’re too damn fly? / Bitch eat shit and die. / (laughter).” While N.W.A. and other rappers claim that “the title bitch don’t apply to all women,” its near ubiquitous use in rap lyrics means that any and all women are potential bitches, especially if they do not comply with the wants and desires of men. The song allows us to begin a conversation about name-calling and labeling, and how such behavior in rap lyrics undermines women. We discuss Patricia Hill Collins’s analysis of words like “bitch” that dehumanize and even animalize women. Hill Collins (2004) argues that “bitch . . . . is designed to defeminize and demonize them” (123). Women have attempted to reclaim “bitch” as empowering “super-tough, super-strong women” (124). However, the “bitch” in hip-hop is not generally empowered, but is a “materialistic, sexualized Black” woman (126). They are the new Jezebel: a recycled, repackaged racist, sexist symbol. I believe that placing the use of the term “bitch” in its proper context includes illustrating how black women, in particular, have been treated as somewhat less than human throughout U.S. history. White male abuse and structural racist sexism, especially sexual abuse, are mirrored in contemporary misogynist rap lyrics. An analysis of the history of white male abuse against black women can help students draw comparisons between it and the sexually abusive and misogynist lyrics of much popular rap music. Therein lies the genius of DeDe Hunt’s video poem in which she analyzes the life of Sara Baartman. She makes a forceful and convincing comparison of her treatment as a circus freak show, and the indignities she suffered in Europe during her life and after her death, with the endless parade of black female bodies in corporate rap music. Placing popular images of black women in rap videos next to images of Sara Baartman breaks through the emotional barriers of students and helps them resituate and recontextualize the images of women in their favorite music videos. Thus, they more easily see how the symbolic sexism in popular rap parallels the real economic, political, and sexual oppression of black women. Furthering our conversation on racist sexism aimed at black women, we compare songs such as “A Bitch Is a Bitch” with material examining structural oppression. Nina Simone’s “Four Women” speaks about the lives of four black women who

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encounter sexist violence, poverty, and racism. The emotional strength of Simone’s performance causes students to further interrogate the pleasure that many receive from sexist and sexually exploitive rap lyrics. In each verse, Simone affirms the beauty and strength of different black women who survive in the face of racism and sexism. Simone sings in the first verse: “My skin is black. My arms are long. / My hair is wooly. My back is strong. / Strong enough to take the pain inflicted again and again. / What do they call me? My name is Aunt Sara.” At the end of each verse, Simone’s characters break the silence imposed on female victims and declare in the end that they are valued beings who have identities and names. She sings, “What do they call me?” and then sings or shouts the character’s name. This challenge to female invisibility is juxtaposed to the countless nameless bitches, hos, skeezers, and putas found in rap music. Importantly, Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek (as the group Reflection Eternal) recognize the genius of Simone and the importance of more thoughtful representations of black women. In their song “For Women” (2000), they rework Simone’s music and characters into a contemporary setting. Kweli uses many of Simone’s lines, including describing his Aunt Sara as having long arms, a strong back, and wooly hair. I also play Kemo the Blaxican’s “La Flor” in order to further make intercultural connections. Kemo discusses two mothers and how they overcome their marginalized status as poor, female, and brown. One woman triumphs over abuse and poverty to create a better life for herself and her children. The other is Kemo’s mother. Students see that men do not have to be sexist in order to make compelling music; I also point out that he only sees “good” women as mothers. Since the song illustrates a man who has a slightly more broadly conceived understanding of gender, the question becomes “Why do we not hear these types of depictions more often in corporate rap music?” The fact that a well-respected independent emcee can make good music that does not demean means that others can too. At this moment, we are able to turn our critical gaze toward the corporate rap industry and the culture industries more broadly, which push pornographic sexuality, strict gender divisions, and patriarchal perspectives. Sex sells, but not simply because of something inherent in pornographic sexuality. Sex sells, and certain types of sex sell (heterosexual, from the male perspective) because they are promoted by the culture industry.

FEMALE AGENCY AND EMPOWERMENT IN HIP-HOP

The lack of female agency in rap music is notorious. Few women have been able to challenge the enormous numbers of male rappers who have been free to depict women and set the standard for how women are viewed through rap music. Women have been so shut out of mainstream rap music that it is hard for many of us to hear

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female emcees. Male students have argued this point, saying, “Who wants to hear a woman rap?” The answer is: female students want to hear women rap! Female students are always interested in female emcees beyond the popular few with whom they are familiar. Inevitably, female students complain about the images developed by Lil Kim and Nikki Minaj (though some assert their right to enjoy their risqué behaviors and raunchy music). They want to like Kim and Nikki and their sexual agency, but see more of the same in how they parrot male depictions of women. Emcees such as Medusa and La Bruja represent powerful women who do not use their sexual assets to get over on men. They use musical skill and intelligence to earn respect, and speak in more equal ways regarding sexuality and gender. The movie Nobody Knows My Name, directed by Rachel Raimist, highlights Los Angeles emcee Medusa, along with other female participants in hip-hop. A number of clips from the movie show Medusa’s powerful presence on stage, and her lyrical skills that rival those of the best emcees. Medusa refuses to allow her image to be controlled by patriarchal notions of beauty and value. She rejects the bodily enhancements such as breast implants, colored contacts, and dyed hair. She does not wear clothes that reveal her body for the male gaze and male pleasure, though she may express her sexuality through style. Instead she presents herself as a beautiful black woman without need for extreme alteration to conform to an artificial beauty standard. This includes wearing her hair in natural black-pride styles along with dressing in African-type garb. Sometimes she wears headwraps and other times she dresses in hip-hop style. Medusa claims her own power and agency through the act of naming herself. She explains in the movie that she chose the name “Medusa” after a conversation with a friend. The friend explained that the popular images of the mythological character Medusa were inaccurate. He said, “Medusa was a sista.” Medusa was a black woman. Her locked hair looked like snakes. The power of this African woman who turned people into stone appealed to Medusa. She adopted the moniker and began to channel the power of this iconic character. Part of her strategy is to leave men, especially male emcees, frozen like stone with her lyrical and logical gifts. Over a funky, heavy hip-hop beat in her song “Know Thyself ” (from the compilation of independent, politically minded female emcees Queens of the Mic (2010), from MC Nejma Shea and Realizm Rekords), she chastises men who act like children more concerned with their fragile egos than taking care of their responsibilities. After describing a man only concerned with “flossin” (conspicuous consumption) and having sex with many women as a means to “front” for (impress) his male friends, Medusa raps: “If you wasn’t so busy tryin’ to be your man’s man / we might have more men, man.” Throughout she takes to task male rappers who speak about women in sexist ways. Their problem, she argues, is that they don’t understand themselves

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as men and the roles they should play in society. In the chorus she says: “You think you know me but you don’t know me. / You can’t know me. / You’ll never know me unless you know yourself.” La Bruja’s compact disc Brujalicious (2008) shows her as a gifted emcee and writer. Her lyrics are complex, and she brings a sense of humor and humanity to her work. Like Medusa, La Bruja renames herself in order to claim the power of naming. She takes a word that is used as an epithet and reinterprets its meaning. A bruja is a witch. Witches in Western folklore, of course, are evil, ugly, and scary creatures. La Bruja redefines bruja, recalling the original meanings associated with the term. Witches were healers with extraordinary knowledge of nature and spirituality. They were dangerous in that they were an impediment to male domination, especially in healing, religion, and politics. The witch-hunts in the United States and Europe demonstrate the threat that patriarchal society saw in these powerful women who were outside of patriarchal authority. The sources of their power, especially the erotic, were attacked by male authorities. The knowledge and power of such women were deemed “witchcraft”; they were demonic practices. This was and is especially true of women of color from non-Christian traditions who hold a great deal of power within their communities. Women with such power were/are seen as inverting the gender roles of European patriarchy in which the man is the head of the patriarchal, nuclear family. La Bruja’s reclaiming of female knowledge and agency includes her song “Brujería.” It tells of her strength and power through her lyrical brujería or witchcraft. Other songs, such as “Fuego” (Fire) and “Beso Peligroso” (Dangerous Kiss), show La Bruja as a threat to the patriarchal order that oppresses women. Furthering the metaphor of the witch, La Bruja partners with another Puerto Rican female emcee, Hurricane G, in the song “Trick or Treat.” G, a veteran emcee, is also a santería priestess. Literally, then, La Bruja invokes female spiritual and healing power in her music. La Bruja uses the sources of women’s power from Africa, reversioned in the Afro-Latin@ Caribbean to challenge the misogyny of popular rap music. Her complex music also invokes the power of the African-diasporic cultures. She mixes hip-hop beats with salsa and reggaetón. La Bruja’s music and lyrics and our readings on the roots of rap music in the cultures of the African diaspora, especially those of the Caribbean, broaden students’ historical perspectives. These texts provide a polycultural understanding of the history of the Americas and the history of hip-hop (Prashad 2002). Hip-hop, black history, Latin@ history, and the history of the United States are the results of complex multicultural exchanges. Musical and lyric analysis of a wide range of hip-hop texts encourages students to see the multiple relationships that constitute history.

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RESPONSES TO THE MALE GAZE

When not being called bitches and hos, women are revered for their beauty. They are placed on pedestals and admired. Men gaze upon and describe the wonders of women. Many songs that seem less sexist, and often romantic, objectify women; the previously mentioned songs “Summertime” (DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince) and “Around the Way Girl” (LL Cool J) are exemplars. In my classes I have juxtaposed two familiar songs: the pop soul song “I Am Not My Hair” by India.Arie, and Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “I Like Big Butts.” Mix-a-Lot’s hit song and video are a celebration of black women’s bodies, but not their minds or souls. I have chosen this song since it is almost universally known and is intended as a comedic song; unfortunately, it puts people at ease with objectifying black female bodies. Students generally like the song, and the men usually joke about how they agree with Sir Mix-a-Lot in his declarations concerning the physical superiority of black women. Some, though certainly not all, women in the classroom see a problem with the song and resent being objectified. Most, however, believe it to be fairly tame and appreciate its privileging of black women. The men generally see the song as humorous and harmless and ask what is wrong with declaring your preferences in a woman. What is wrong with saying, “I like big butts and I cannot lie”? They emphasize the song’s celebratory nature. At this point in the conversation, I introduce Arie’s music and lyrics. This song is also almost universally known among my students and is inevitably chosen in my “Race and Ethnicity” course as a “song that speaks back” to negative representations of people of color. Students in our “Race and Ethnicity” course present this song as one that exemplifies empowering self-representations that challenge racial and sexual images of black women. In the hip-hop course, we focus on the manner in which India.Arie claims an identity outside of the male gaze and the objectification and fetishization of female bodies. In the chorus, Arie sings: “I am not my hair / I am not this skin / I am not your expectations, no / I am not my hair / I am not this skin / I am the soul that lives within.” In the second verse, Arie addresses common sayings reflecting beauty standards as relates to hairstyle in black communities. She takes on notions of “good” and “bad” hair as she sings: “Good hair means curls and waves, no / bad hair means you look like a slave, no / at the turn of the century it’s time for us to redefine who we be.” She further interrogates the value placed on women with beautiful hair, asking the following questions: “Does the way I wear my hair make me a better person? / Does the way I wear my hair make me a better friend? / Does the way I wear my hair determine my integrity? / I am expressing my creativity.” By declaring that she is not her hair, Arie challenges the male gaze and female internalization of patriarchal, and often Eurocentric, beauty standards. At the

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same time, she celebrates the beauty of her different hair styles and her enjoyment of the creativity involved in creating her hairstyles. Juxtaposing Arie with rap lyrics that overemphasize women’s beauty and sexiness, and discussions of scholarly texts such as excerpts from T. Denean Sharply-Whiting’s Pimps Up, Ho’s Down, allows for conversations about beauty standards, the male gaze, racism, internalized racism, sexism, and male-female relations, among many other topics. These conversations highlight how even playful, seemingly harmless songs perpetuate sexism, gender inequality, and harmful female-male relations. A pedagogy of the erotic using hip-hop includes teasing out the multiple and complex ways that many rap lyrics further a racist, patriarchal agenda. It also includes analyzing rap lyrics using female art and music that utilize women’s power of the erotic. Recontextualizing rap lyrics by placing them side by side with the art and music of India.Arie, La Bruja, and Medusa, for example, highlights how differently we can conceive of womanhood, male-female relations, and other gender issues. Since the male gaze, pornography, and sexism are so commonplace in our culture today, we often listen to rap music without realizing the extent to which it is sexist. Students remark that it is “just the way it is,” or ask why feminists are so against sex. Deep conversations using feminist and hip-hop texts allow for an opening up of understanding of gender, sex, and sexuality so that we can see what might be possible if we tap the erotic and other sources of women’s power.

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Pedagogy of Peace RETHINKING RAP VIOLENCE

While much has been written about the violence in rap music lyrics, little has been written about the peace rhetoric and anti-violence messages in much of the music.4 In our discussions of “gangsta” rap, we deal with extreme levels of violence found in the music. My studies of rap music lyrics show that violence is intimately linked to artists’ and consumers’ racial and gender identities. The well-worn concepts of “keepin’ it real” and being “hard” permeate the identities of many men of color who are a part of hip-hop. Tales of violence show how working-class men of color survive by being hypermasculine. The value of being “hard” is expressed over and over in rap music. Moreover, there is precious little in the national culture of the United States of America that suggests there is virtue in peace. Rappers and consumers of rap music witness the everyday violence in our country that is justified in the name of progress or protection of country. The multiple wars continuously being waged by the United States government, along with depictions of a glorious military past and present, teach young men and boys that violence is often the best and only

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solution to our problems. The rules of predator and prey often control inner-city neighborhoods where violent, illicit markets dominate young men’s economic possibilities. In the political, economic, and cultural fields, working-class men and boys of color see violence as natural, normal, and inevitable. The violence of capitalist imperialism, whereby colonial subjects are controlled and manipulated via the superior military power of the colonizer, plays an important role in men of color’s attitudes and practices of violence. It is in this context that we should understand violent rap lyrics (McFarland 2008a). Additionally, much of the extreme violence in rap music that has been denounced by corporate media and lobbying groups is misunderstood. Often rap musicians have incredibly complex and nuanced understandings of violence. While sometimes celebratory of violence, the songs of many emcees critique or lament violence that they see around them. Often, these songs criticize the violence meted out against people of color by agents of the state and/or white supremacy. The two most notorious examples are N.W.A.’s “F tha Police” and Body Count’s (leader-singer Ice-T) song “Cop Killer.”5 Both songs declare the emcees’ violent attitude toward police. Taken out of context, the songs seem like orgies of violence aimed at the police from the minds and mouths of predatory black youth. However, if examined carefully, as we do in class, we see that both songs are protests against police abuse. The first verse of N.W.A.’s “F tha Police” begins with Ice Cube rapping: Fuck the police comin’ straight from the underground. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

A young nigga got it bad ’cause I’m brown And not the other color. So police think they have the authority to kill a minority. Fuck that shit, ’cause I ain’t the one for a punk motherfucker with a badge and a gun to be beatin’ on and thrown in jail. We can go toe to toe in the middle of a cell. Fuckin’ with me ’cause I’m a teenager with a little bit of gold and a pager. Searchin’ my car, lookin’ for the product, thinkin’ every nigga is sellin’ narcotics. You’d rather see me in the pen than me and Lorenzo rollin’ in a Benz-o

The lyrics to “Cop Killer” include the following: Cop killer, better you than me. I’m a cop killer, fuck police brutality!

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Fuck the police, for Darryl Gates. Fuck the police, for Rodney King. Fuck the police, for my dead homies. Fuck the police, for your freedom.

Students, especially black male students, respond well to these very popular songs. They immediately identify with the frustrations espoused by the groups, and confess to having similar feelings on many occasions. The students understand the intent of the song and applaud N.W.A. and Ice-T for expressing in rhyme what many of the students have thought in less lyrical ways. However, for the purposes of developing a social-justice agenda, we examine how this unorganized, interpersonal violence contributes to radical social change. Unorganized violence not grounded in a sound understanding of capitalism and the state has proven a failure in bringing about a more liberated society.

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THE COMPLEXITY OF ANTI-VIOLENCE POLITICS IN A VIOLENT SOCIETY

While the above-mentioned songs, along with others, advocate violent resistance, many songs throughout rap-music history have asked us to think differently about violence, illustrating how hip-hop and rap music address violence in myriad ways. In class, I use songs by Chicago’s Lupe Fiasco to address violence and our feelings about violence. I use Lupe because he is from Chicago’s notorious West Side, and as it turns out, is known personally by some of the students. Thus, there is another point of identification between students and the subject matter. Someone from their part of town with a personal story similar to theirs is the subject of academic study and legitimate knowledge. Lupe’s song “Little Weapon,” from his 2008 compact disc The Cool, engages violence in clever lyrical and musical ways. The song begins with a rapid-fire a cappella verse about three young boys who turn to gun violence. The music then enters with a relentless military-sounding snare drum “signifyin’ on” martial music and worldview. Lupe’s verses discuss violence in different scenarios. One verse, rapped by guest emcee Bishop G, examines video-game violence, asking us to “Imagine if I had to console the families of those slain I slayed on game consoles.” The verse asks us to analyze the pleasure that many young men get from virtual murder. Coupling this verse with scholarly investigations of popular-culture violence helps students make connections between an aesthetics of violence ubiquitous in our society, and actual violence in our communities and in imperial military campaigns in the Middle East and elsewhere. In other verses, Lupe considers military violence in places like Africa where boys are recruited to terrorize communities. Lupe raps: “Childhood destroyed, devoid of all childish ways. / Can’t write their own names or read the words that’s on their own graves. / Think you gangsta, popped a few rounds? / These kids’ll come

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through and murder a whole town. / Then sit back and smoke and watch it burn down.” He comments on childhoods stolen through violence and draws a parallel between the tragedy of gun violence in black communities and that of child soldiers in Africa. Lupe’s song, then, can be read as an anti-violence song that connects and criticizes military violence, video games, and other pop-culture violence. This song, combined with others such as “Gotta Eat” in which he examines the violence that accompanies poverty and the illicit drug trade in ghettos, asks us to think critically about the damage that violence does, whether through the military, pop culture, or the drug trade. I ask students to consider anti-violence songs from a variety of rap genres. Latin@ students, especially, benefit from listening to Chican@ rappers like Krazy Race, Psycho Realm, Thief Sicario, and others whose tales of growing up poor, brown, and male in Los Angeles resonate with their own experiences in Chicago barrios. Their tales of urban difficulties include numerous requests for people to rethink the efficacy of violence. If rap music, along with the greater popular culture, can influence young people toward antisocial behavior and a positive evaluation of and desensitization toward violence, then rap music and expressive culture can be used to socialize kids toward peace. A pedagogy of peace would use student strengths and identities to generate new and deeper understandings of peace and violence.

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Pedagogy of Racial Justice AFRICA IN HIP-HOP RESISTANCE

Hip-hop is an effective way to teach black and Latin@ history, and the history of relations between these two groups. Implicit in hip-hop is a history of African music and culture. Through readings about the various elements of hip-hop and rap music, and audio and visual examples, students are able to see that hip-hop and black people have histories that predate the rise of hip-hop in the 1970s, and even slavery in the Americas. Students who up to this point may have only seen African and black people in the historical role of victim are able to further develop an empowering identity through witnessing how African culture has endured. Instead of seeing Africa in pejorative or ambiguous terms and seeing hip-hop as cut off from black tradition, students learn about the important musical and cultural contributions of Africa to the Americas and the world. It becomes clear that hip-hop retains important cultural traits, and modifies others that were brought from Africa during the Atlantic slave trade and reversioned over centuries in the Americas.6 Additionally, a polycultural approach to understanding history and hip-hop serves to deepen

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students’ knowledge and sense of self and community and their interrelatedness with other peoples of color. Examples of African musical aesthetics and worldview abound in rap music and hip-hop culture. An important place to begin is with the very terms “hip-hop” and “rap.” Sheila Walker (2001) shows us how African languages have broadly influenced black speech and Standard American English. Walker discusses the etymology of the term “hip.” In class we discuss how “hip,” which has always meant something “good” or “empowering” in U.S. black vernacular, comes from the Wolof word xipi (pronounced hippi). It means “to have one’s eyes wide open.” Someone who is “hip” is aware of what is happening. He/she has an empowering knowledge that allows her/him to survive and be successful. Someone who is hip can also alert others. They can pass on their knowledge and skills. Moreover, this is done within a community context in which those who have their eyes open do so as a result of their experiences within a community. Hip-hop’s etymology, then, challenges the all-too-common understanding of it as ignorant, sexist, violent, and greedy. Hip-hop’s value system includes community and individual empowerment through knowledge. Corporate rap, on the other hand, suggests a wholly different set of values. It fosters greed, capitalism, domination, and sexism. In this way, different types of rap and individual songs can be evaluated for their relationship to diasporic, West African–derived values and aesthetics, as opposed to European-dominated capitalist values. Certain African cultural traditions can thus be exalted while the values behind colonialism, capitalism, and sexism are rejected. Rap music can be evaluated not simply on its sound or an artist’s degree of “swag” (charisma and style), but on whether or not it adheres to liberatory, anticolonial, antiracist values—or as Alexs Pate (2010) might suggest, its level of saturation. Furthermore, discussions of language use, especially black and Latin@ speech patterns, illustrate the ways in which the language of hip-hop reveals a resistant politics at the heart of the African and Mesoamerican diasporas in the Americas. Students show pride in the way in which rap lyrics are often unintelligible to whites. Through hip-hop, black and Latin@ youth can speak to one another under the radar of dominant white culture. Black and Latin@ creativity with speech, and the pleasures that come with being insubordinate to unjust racial authority even in minor speech acts, reveals a critique of the dominant U.S. racial order. Rap lyrics and working-class Black English and Spanglish show how black and Latin@ speech in the United States has evolved in response to threats from the white ruling classes. Black speech practices such as signifyin’, double entendre, and vocal inflection or polytonality have been used as a code throughout the centuries to develop a critical oppositional consciousness, and as a tactic in the struggle for liberation (Alim 2009, 2006; Baugh 1999; Neal 2008; Perry and Delpit 1998).

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Hip-hop practices such as call-and-response, polyrhythmic layering, emphasis on bass and drum sounds, storytelling in the vein of West African griots, nyamu, repetition, and the patchwork-quilt-like approach to sampling among other practices bear witness to the African roots of hip-hop. Linguistic practices of the ChHHN not only borrow from the West African cultural retentions in hip-hop, but use a number of Mexican and indigenous American practices as well. Through the examination of these cultural retentions, students better understand important concepts such as diaspora, unique perspectives on time and space, and hybridity. African and American indigenous cultures—and by extension themselves—are affirmed, while damaging notions of biological race and cultural purity are challenged. When the early history of hip-hop is discussed, students learn that a number of African diasporic cultures contributed to hip-hop’s development. They learn that pioneers such as DJ Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, and Afrika Bambaataa have roots in the West Indies, and that rhythms and styles from the Hispanophone Caribbean, including Cuba and Puerto Rico, contributed to hip-hop’s aesthetic (Flores 2000; Hoch 2007). Later we find that as hip-hop travels west, we encounter a hybrid musical culture based in Mexican American/Chicano style and dance as well as Black-diasporan elements (McFarland 2008b; Alvarez 2008; Israel 2002). Thus, a hip-hop pedagogy helps students see themselves and their identities connected to wider diasporic processes that constitute more than simply a history of victimhood. They learn about African/black and Mexican and indigenous cultures, and can see connections across European-imposed racial and ethnic lines. Black and Latin@ students strengthen and broaden their identities and make at least theoretical alliances with other people of color. Students are fascinated to find out that one of the beloved characters and tropes in hip-hop results from East Indian and African interaction in the West Indies. Contract labor from India brought their culture and language to places like Jamaica. In Jamaica, Indians encountered former African slaves. Here they exchanged, adapted, and adopted aspects of each other’s cultures. The idea of the “thug” that permeates rap music and hip-hop culture developed in this ethnic encounter. Thugees were Northern Indians who, because of colonial conditions, turned to robbery to make a living. Thugees or thugs became known as deceivers and thieves by British authorities who sought to eradicate this threat to their empire. Thugs were an oppositional group. The idea of the thug likely appealed to African Caribbeans who were also oppressed by the British colonial system. The outlaw thug represented resistance. It is likely that the “thug” identity entered the hip-hop lexicon and iconography through its numerous early West Indian innovators or any number of West Indian participants in early hip-hop culture (Dyson 2001; Prashad 2001). The “thug” resonates well with black and Chican@/Mexican@ appreciation of outlaw figures and social bandits and

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a history of exalting such figures in their resistance actions and rhetorics. Through this understanding of hip-hop’s polycultural foundations, students open to new ways of thinking about relationships between themselves and other people of color, and about politically focused identity.

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BLACK-CHICAN@/MEXICAN@ RELATIONS

Racial and ethnic divides between blacks and people of Mexican descent in the United States have a long history. Throughout the centuries, blacks and Mexicans have been pitted against one another. Capitalists and racists have divided and conquered these two groups by controlling labor costs and labor migration from the United States South and Mexico/U.S. Southwest, and by exploiting and perpetuating racial stereotypes. The history of Africans in Mexico, and the Mexican state’s attempts to erase Africans from Mexican cultural patrimony have furthered the misunderstandings and distrust between these two groups. Additionally, the omission of an alternative history of relations between Africans/blacks and Mexicans/Chican@s that shows their cooperation and common struggle means that understandings of black-Chican@/Mexican@ relations are primarily influenced by media stereotypes and misinformation about the black crime “threat” or the Mexican immigration “invasion” (Hernandez Cuevas 2004; McFarland 2006a; Sawyer 2005).7 While divisions between Mexicans and blacks have a long and complicated history, so too does black-Mexican cooperation (Alvarez 2008; Dziedzienyo and Oboler 2005; M. García 1998; Horne 2005; McFarland 2006a). Through introducing black students to Chican@/Mexican@ rap music and writings on black and Chican@/ Mexican@ connections through hip-hop, the alternative history of black-Chican@/ Mexican@ relations can be explored. After discussing hip-hop and rap musical elements, especially those retained from African cultures, we listen to rap music created by people of Mexican descent. The best of Chican@/Mexican@ rap, like the best of black rap, clearly illustrates the aural and moral debt to Africa. We also examine how Chican@/Mexican@ rap is different from that of its black counterparts. We see that musical differences between the two groups result from distinct but related histories, oral and musical traditions, religious thought, and relationships to others. More promising for developing a pedagogy and politics of interracial relations is the fact that the music from both groups is so much alike. Chican@/Mexican@ musicians sample the same artists as black rap musicians. A great deal of the language used is similar, though many Chican@s/Mexican@s rap in Spanish or Spanglish and use a distinct Chican@ street slang. Chican@s/Mexicans use many of the same musical elements that make hip-hop unique while often incorporating indigenous or Mexican musical elements. They scratch, layer multiple rhythms, use breakbeats,

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create a musical pastiche through cutting and pasting multiple parts of multiple songs, and rely on the signature hip-hop beat. The “boom-boom-bap” rhythm is played or implied in nearly all music classified as hip-hop since at least the mid-1980s. Hip-hop music producers use a wide variety of acoustic and digital instruments to lay this rhythmic foundation. After repeated listening to hip-hop music from various genres and historical periods, we come to see the “boom-boom bap” as a distinctive hip-hop element shared by black, Mexican/Chican@, white, and other hip-hop musical production. Importantly, this claim that the “boom-boom bap” is the rhythmic foundation of hip-hop is challenged by many. Those who define hip-hop as popular radio-friendly dance music claim that the danceable beats of Southern crunk–inspired production is today’s hip-hop. Debates over hip-hop rhythms offer the opportunity for students both to claim ownership of knowledge, and to discuss concepts such as identity, authenticity, and race. Through readings of texts related to Chican@-black musical and other interactions, the lessons of cross-cultural sharing, cooperation, and influence in hip-hop are further solidified. Students learn through musical and written texts that Chican@s/ Mexican@s and blacks have shared histories that include Africans in Mexico and influences on Mexican culture; shared fights against racial injustice in the United States; common workers’ struggles and environmental justice campaigns; support of each other’s civil rights agendas and cooperation in an overall racial justice program; intermarriage; Mexican support of escaped slaves, black artists, and sports figures; artistic exchanges between such artists as Diego Rivera, Miguel Covarrubias, and Elizabeth Catlett; mutual creation of youth culture throughout the twentieth century, including jazz, zoot-suiting, lowriding, and rock-and-roll music.8 An important figure in deepening our understanding of Chican@-black relations is Kemo the Blaxican. Kemo shows his embeddedness in both cultures through his music and lyrics. Kemo uses blues and jazz ideas and musical elements in his music, utilizes black and Mexican/Chican@ folklore and cultural references, and proclaims his pride in being both black and Chicano. Kemo’s seamless weaving of these two traditions demonstrates the manner in which each is incredibly similar, and how each has influenced the other and mutually created culture throughout their contact since at least the sixteenth century (McFarland 2008b).9

HIP-HOP THIRD WORLDISM

The celebrated independent emcee Immortal Technique goes further than most rappers in making connections across racial, ethnic, and national lines. Technique is an independent emcee familiar to many hip-hop listeners, and is acclaimed as one of the best emcees/lyricists currently recording in hip-hop. Technique gained fame

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for his deft lyrical abilities and flow on his first two compact discs, Revolutionary, volume one and Revolutionary, volume two. Technique tells gritty tales of urban life as an Afro-Peruvian in New York City. Critical and revolutionary political analysis dominates the subject matter of his songs. His first recordings include a privileging of people of color as he commonly makes allusions to black and Latin@ history and culture. He is unashamed to loudly support people of color and work on their behalf. His third compact disc, The Third World (2008), continues the formula that made him famous. Throughout the disc, he provides information and perspective on current economic and political conditions, and proclaims his solidarity with people of the Third World as well as Third World people in the United States. Technique shows his pan-African, pan-Latin@, and internationalist perspective throughout the work. His cultural work and political ideology reflects a Third Worldism that motivated militant activism and direct action by masses of interconnected people of color (Pulido 2006). He claims an affinity toward oppressed people, referring to himself and others as colonized, guerrillas, terrorists, crucificados (crucified), and revolutionaries. In the exemplary song “The 3rd World,” he declares unity with all people in the Third World. Technique’s rhetoric recalls the theorizing of the Non-Aligned Movement, Third World solidarity movements, and communist and anarchist working-class internationalism. Technique opens the song by welcoming us “to the Third World.” He tells us that he, as the embodiment of Third World peoples, is from African countries “where the gold and diamonds are raping the Earth / right next to the slave castles where the water is cursed; / from where police brutality is not half as nice / and makes the hood in America look like paradise.” He further discusses the Third World and European colonization of his homelands. He speaks of the conditions of Third World workers, rapping that he is from where “niggas grow coca cuz the job market doesn’t exist except slave labor” (Andean region of South America), where “they murder Coca-Cola union organizers” (Latin America), and “where muthafuckas make sneakers for a quarter a day” in sweatshops (primarily South Asia). He goes on to speak about the health effects of colonialism and European violence toward the Third World. He raps that he is from where the “bombs they dropped on Vietnam still has children deformed eight months before they are born” and where contemporary colonization of the Third World leads to medical tragedies, saying, “Fuck your charity medicines / try to murder me / immunizations you gave us were full of mercury.” He claims a connection to people who live where colonizers “polluted everything . . . the water is poisoned . . . and 700 children die by the end of this song.” His criticism of European colonialism continues with an indictment of organized religion as he says that he is from “where people pray to the gods of

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their conquerors” and “the Catholic Church is some racist shit / helped Europe and America rape this bitch.” He continues discussing the ideological warfare and racist philosophy aimed at colonized people. He is from “where blacks, indigenous people, and Asians / were the slaves of Caucasians . . . / It’s amazing how they taught them to be racist / against themselves. . . . Destroyed our culture and said you civilized us. / Raped our women and when we were born you despised us.” Immortal Technique recognizes the numerous complicated historical causes of racist colonialism that has beset Third World peoples, and argues for Third World solidarity based on resistance to it. He implores people in the Third World to resist, violently if necessary. In the chorus he says, “lock and load your gun” and celebrates “guerrilla hit and run” tactics. He wants to “start a global riot.” Technique’s work articulates a Third Worldist politics like that found in the Bandung Conference. This gathering of Third World leaders in 1955 raised the hopes of people in developing countries. Importantly, it was affirmed that a major aspect of Third World solidarity was resistance to imperialism—what Prashad (2001, 144) calls “anti-colonial solidarity.” This resistance was central to the self-understanding of many in the Third World as well as Third World peoples (people of color) in the United States. Going beyond racial and national limits, these anticolonialists made identity around resistance and made anticolonialism an ethic for unity. This perspective influenced the infamous student strikes at San Francisco State University in 1968 and has continued today in the environmental justice movement. Laura Pulido (1996) points to the development of the people-of-color identity as a recent moment in developing solidarity through resistance. Resistance to racist domination has also become an important part of the identities of black, Latino, and Asian men. Since racial and colonial domination are central to the experiences of people of color and citizens of the Third World, resistant identities and the celebration of resistant figures have made their way into their oral and literary traditions. Hill (2009, 48) found that hip-hop constitutes the latest in this tradition for black men. He found that in his high school classroom, “students used the narratives [of hip-hop outlaw stories] as a space to imagine and perform resistance to the threats and strictures of their lives.” Students in my university classrooms have also celebrated resistance, further developed critical consciousness and oppositional identities, and formed alliances over hip-hop texts. Playing Chican@ and Latin@ artists who identify as anticolonialist and antiracist and who exhibit Third World or people-of-color solidarity appeals to students of color. Moreover, their identification with resistant figures helps explain their embrace of rap and other artists who have presented themselves in misogynist and violent ways and who seem to celebrate guns, murder, sexual licentiousness, criminal behavior, and sexism. Students often respect any show of anti-authoritarianism and black and Latino men “getting over” on the system. Often,

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they justify “immoral acts” through appealing to the notion that they are resisting domination and getting back at the system. Artists such as Immortal Technique attempt to appeal to this resistant sentiment among many men of color and focus it in anti-imperial, antiracist ways. Technique, Krazy Race, Kemo, and many, many others use their voices and their songs to challenge artificially imposed racial and ethnic boundaries. They link these racist boundaries to a legacy of colonialism that keeps people of “different” races and ethnicities fighting for survival, often against each other, at the same time that it has enriched European elites. They claim solidarities across these boundaries, and while celebrating their unique cultural identities, also recognize the human similarities between people of different regions and cultures. This Third Worldism and defiant attitude allow students of color to identify with one another and support their own critical consciousness and oppositional identities.

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Hip-Hop, Polyculturalism, and Pedagogical Possibility

Paolo Freire, in his Pedagogy of the Oppressed (2000, 69), stated that “Human existence cannot be silent, nor can it be nourished by false words, but only by true words, with which men and women transform the world. To exist, humanly, is to name the world, to change it. Human beings are not built in silence, but in word, in work, in action-reflection.” A hip-hop-based pedagogy of social justice fulfills a number of educational objectives. Social science, humanities, and historical concepts, ideas, and perspectives can be learned; critical thinking, public speaking, and rhetoric can be enhanced; student empowerment, community building, and critical attitudes toward race, race relations, and racism are developed; gender identity, relations, and inequality are explored, debated, and challenged; opportunities to rethink the organization of society, especially as it relates to social injustice, are opened up. Traditional classroom approaches leave little room for personal growth, especially that which is self-directed. These approaches typically do not allow for the self-reflexivity that is essential to claiming a voice and leadership. Hip-hop pedagogies force us to explore ideas and experiences that resonate with and challenge student worldviews. Because they feel a sense of ownership and expertise in hip-hop, they feel empowered to speak, analyze, and struggle with hip-hop’s cultural politics. At the same time, I have found “pedagogies of hip-hop” to be effective in teaching disciplinary content in a number of disciplines. Hip-hop deals with the same subject matter that scholars examine and write about—the same content taught in college classrooms. Hip-hop provides a discursive arena ripe with pedagogical possibilities.

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Because hip-hop vernacular is recognizable and honored among many students, especially students of color, the social analysis provided by hip-hop texts offers a bridge to academic language and analysis. Hip-hop pedagogies can go beyond traditional classrooms by emphasizing the rhetorics of social justice in hip-hop culture. The resistant politics of hip-hop always leads to discussions of injustice and agency in the face of oppression. Students inevitably face the questions: What can be done in the fight for social justice? What can I do? and What are the stakes in fighting oppression or, on the other hand, acquiescing in status quo exploitation? The self-reflexivity required in hip-hop-based pedagogy empowers students and can inspire them to act. Importantly for this book project, Chican@/Mexican@ students can develop a deeper understanding of themselves. This understanding can challenge the narrow definitions of them represented in the media and offered by their parents and others. Through the examination of hip-hop and its polycultural origins and critical theories, Chican@/Mexican@ students develop a vocabulary and perspective that allow them to interrogate their racial and ethnic identities and to critique the state, capitalism, and authority. They can see how Africa enters their cultural world and can begin to identify their African, indigenous, and polycultural origins. A critical and deep study of hip-hop enables a new millennial mestizaje that empowers them to pursue their own self-definitions, subjectivity, and freedom dreams.

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A FTERWO RD

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Hip-Hop and Freedom-Dreaming in the Mexican Diaspora

In 1991 revolutionary rap group Public Enemy refused to perform in the state of Arizona as long as that state did not recognize the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. holiday. Their song “By the Time I Get to Arizona” reflects an important moment in anticolonial, anticapitalist politics in the United States. The song reflects the culture wars and ideological battles that roiled the United States during the 1980s. Ronald Reagan presided over the rollback of the gains made by people of color and the working classes throughout the twentieth century. The ideological attack against black people, as epitomized in Arizona’s King Day rejection and the economic attacks culminating in the L.A. Rebellion one year later, exemplifies the two-pronged strategy of neoliberalism and globalization that disproportionately affected people of color in the United States and abroad. The severe economic turmoil brought to Los Angeles and other urban centers as a result of the deindustrialization of the 1970s and 1980s is the material context from which these blacks and Latinos lashed out (Oliver, Johnson, and Farrell 1993). They used their “power to disrupt” and participated in a “postmodern bread riot” (M. Davis 1993). Public Enemy used their music to express their rejection of this new accumulation of capital and offered a black-nationalist response. n

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Nearly twenty years later, Arizona once again takes center stage as a battleground in the ruling class’s attempts to further weaken worker power and control people of color. Chuck D, Public Enemy’s emcee and songwriter, finds himself once again addressing Arizona politics. His 2010 song “Tear Down That Wall” expands his analysis to include Mexicans and others. Going by the moniker MistaChuck, he uses Reagan’s famous admonishment to Soviet leader Gorbachev to “tear down that wall” to expose the repressive nature of the postindustrial, neoliberal U.S. government. Chuck surmises that thousands of deaths annually and countless incidents of brutality and hardship result from the neoliberal, neocolonial capitalist strategies of the new era. Importantly, he urges black Americans to understand the racism aimed at Mexicans, which he believes mirrors that experienced by blacks (he suggests that this is “modern day slavery”), and which is an attack on all working-class people by the ruling classes who are “scared of the enthusiasm of the Black and Brown Planet.” In 2011, Raul and Mexia (sons of Hernán Hernandez, cofounder of the legendary group Los Tigres del Norte) recorded “Todos Somos Arizona” in the wake of the legislative attack on people of Mexican descent that included the policing initiative SB1070 and the ideological weapon of banning Chican@ studies from classrooms. This song presents a criticism of neoliberal, capitalist economics, especially as relates to the use of racist fear to divide the working classes. They argue for comprehensive immigration reform that would allow immigrants to work and live in the United States with dignity and without fear. They use U.S. rhetoric to argue for better treatment, asking people to “remember that we’re all created equal.” They claim a kinship with all working people, arguing that they are the new immigrant workers, similar to the immigrant and black slave and “free” labor that built the country. Today, Mexican immigrants continue to be the group responsible for further building the wealth of many individuals and that of the country. For this they should be recognized, not demonized and put in “cadenas [chains] like we’re ignorant.” The songs of Public Enemy and Raul and Mexia should not surprise us, given that rap/hip-hop music has been the most consistently political musical genre since its inception. Early songs like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “The Message” demonstrate this tendency in hip-hop. In each of the above-mentioned songs, the emcees analyze capitalist strategies of containment of people of color (the colonized). They reflect resistant, racialized identities. Both MistaChuck and Raul and Mexia invoke a sense of unity between people of color. This polycultural orientation challenges colonialism and capitalism through working-class solidarity at the same time that it begins to undermine essentialist notions of race promulgated by the ruling classes. In Raul and Mexia’s song, however, they limit their criticism to liberal reformism. They recognize that super-exploitation of immigrant labor, and the working conditions and legal terror aimed at Mexican immigrant labor are

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unfair and unequal, but do not explicitly condemn the capitalist economic system and the state as the foundation of this ill treatment. I argue that applying a decolonial or anticolonial, anticapitalist perspective to the examination of hip-hop in Mexican America correctly emphasizes the impact of these forces on the identities and politics of many young people of the Mexican diaspora in the United States. In addition, the experience of colonialism for Mexican people is replete with cultural exchange, interaction, love, conflict, and cooperation with other colonized peoples and the colonizing groups. Thus, one must recognize the polycultural nature of the Mexican@/Chican@ historical experience, especially at the end of the twentieth century and beginning of the new millennium. Today the globalized neoliberal economy with its international treaties and military dominance continues the colonization process. Structural adjustment programs, “free trade” agreements, rampant privatization, and various battles in the “War on Terror” invite extreme deprivation for immigrants and Third World peoples. Chican@/Mexican@ emcees develop their political understanding and their identities from this position as colonized subjects. U.S. neocolonialism in Mexico (U.S. control of the Mexican economy, primarily through the use of legal mechanisms) and internal colonialism of the Mexican American population (turning this ethnic minority population into a work force for capital, and extracting resources from Mexican American communities) results in barrioization: an experience of extreme deprivation, racialization, and containment. In addition, such oppression begets resistance, expressed (in the case of Mexican Americans) as barriology. All of the identities expressed by the Chican@ and Mexican@ emcees analyzed in this book reflect this process of barrioization. Their identities exhibit the struggle to decolonize their minds. The warrior appears as an important aspect of the indigenous/Mexica identity; the Mexican nationalists turn to a romantic, macho notion of Mexicanidad that uses Mexican pride as a shield against racism; and street-hoppers develop an overtly radical political stance as part of their identities. Identity issues such as those explored in this project should be a central part of analyses and strategies for movement-building among the revolutionary Left and others interested in social justice for people of Mexican descent in the United States, and for the working classes in general. We find that the shifting and multiple identities found in Mexican America reveal liberating potentials while sometimes illustrating an ethic of capitalist values, sexism, homophobia, racism, and extreme individualism. Hip-hop is not a transformative movement in and of itself. It can only become transformative or liberatory if it is in communication with social and political movements. Without vibrant political movements, the political theory and praxis of young Mexican Americans will likely resemble establishment politics taught in civics

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classes. Masculine identities will continue to be of the hegemonic, hypermasculine sort, rather than the alternatives examined by scholars such as Mutua and hooks. Individualism and tribalism result from the acceptance of the racial system and racial stereotypes; homophobia remains the norm. A hip-hop politics, if it is to be progressive, revolutionary, or decolonizing, has to be guided by alternatives to the dominant system, especially its epistemology and ethics. These alternatives must be respectful and mindful of the unique and important perspectives and identities of young Mexican America. Anarchism is chief among the important perspectives and theories that counter capitalism, colonialism, and other forms of hierarchy and domination. I highlight anarchism for the following reasons: (1) the long history of “anarchist” organizational styles in indigenous and Mexican American communities; (2) the influence of anarchists such as Ricardo Flores Magón and El Partido Liberal Mexicano (PLM) and the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) on the Chican@/ Mexican@ sector of the labor movement; and (3) the anarchist critique of hierarchy, and proposals for a truly free society devoid of domination.1 In addition, the politics of the ChHHN, especially its more political thinkers, reflect an anarchist-like attitude toward power. Along with anarchism, insights from feminists/womanists/xicanistas, postcolonial theorists, and others provide insight and can help develop a liberatory hip-hop politics. Below is a summary of the identities found in Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop, with a focus on their usefulness for developing an anticolonial, anticapitalist political movement.

Being Mexican: Racial Identity

Most hip-hop artists and fans of Mexican descent approach their understanding of self from a racial perspective. Hip-hop headz of the Mexican diaspora in the United States see themselves as “brown” or “red.” Those who claim brownness as the major component of their racial identity are acknowledging mestizaje. They are a people made up of Spanish and indigenous blood. They are not black or white or indigenous. They are brown. The names of many emcees and groups—including Brown Caesar, Brown Huero, and Pueblo Café/Brown Town Looters—reflect this identity. Those who are red claim an indigenous racial heritage. The lyrics of songs like those examined in chapter 3, “Sonido Indígena,” illustrate this perspective. Hip-hop champions of Mexicanidad such as Kinto Sol return to and update a cultural nationalist perspective that laid the foundation for the Chicano Movement and other movements of people of color in the 1960s and 1970s. Nationalism, according to the dominant logic of the period, was the key to liberation and economic

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independence for distinct groups of people of color. The desire was for each ethnic group to be free to develop its own institutions and economic systems. Often, but not always, cultural nationalists included a critique of capitalism. In many cases (the Nation of Islam, for example) the nationalist orientation merely seeks to gain entrance as equal players in the world of capitalist profits. Capitalism and its ills would not be ended, but rather those who are making the profits would now include people of color. Of course, this perspective is short-sighted in that we know that the reason “race” exists in the first place is to benefit capitalism—to divide the working classes into small tribes that can blame each other for their misery instead of the ruling classes. White working-class exploitation looks like privilege compared to the super-exploitation of black workers and Latin American immigrants (Gomberg 2007). Workers of color and white workers accept this arrangement and the racial labels applied to them. Their struggles resulting from capitalist class relations become struggles for individual betterment or take the form of racial conflict. For many people of color, politics becomes a matter of choosing a candidate for office who is like them—or, in other words, is of the same “race.” This political orientation benefits elites since they can easily develop political agents who serve capital by controlling “their” people. From the comprador class of colonized nations in the nineteenth century to university presidents and city council members today, the ruling classes have used the elites of a given colonized or racialized group to quell discontent and rebellion. Of course, such nationalism limits one’s ability to see people who are not of one’s “race” as part of their in-group. Thus, extreme nationalism does not allow one to see class antagonisms within ethno-racial groups, nor to develop a class consciousness across ethno-racial groups. Even though many Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop headz claim solidarity with others in the working classes, they cling to the common understandings of race developed from a few centuries of pseudo-scientific rationale. Race, rather than a biological fact, is a social construct. Yet, its biological nonexistence does not mitigate its social significance. For people of color, their deprivation is experienced and understood as racial discrimination and not often as class conflict. Chican@s/ Mexican@s do not experience class epithets, but are called “wetbacks” and ordered to go back to Mexico. The treatment that inner-city men receive from the criminal justice system is experienced as racism. The combination of societal understandings of race and Mexican@/Chican@ experience of racism results in an orientation that privileges race as a central part of their identities. Social-justice advocates must recognize the centrality of racial and national identity to working-class people of color. The culture of the Mexican working class can differ substantially from that of other working-class people. Activists could learn

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a great deal from Mexican working-class wisdom that has developed a particularized analysis and critique of capital. Their rituals, approaches to religion, dichos (sayings), values, and mores are alterNative. They challenge dominant culture and the ruling classes from their unique position within the capitalist system. As such, their alterNative culture has developed a set of practices that should be valued by the larger working class and be considered as insight into the nature of capitalist relations. Any social-justice movement would have to understand the importance of racial and national identity and its nuances as discussed in the previous chapters. They would do well to recognize that in the discussion of racial identity within the ChHHN, there is also room for a challenge to essentialist notions of race. The work of Kemo the Blaxican challenges fundamentalist notions of Mexicanidad/Chicanidad. While Kemo retains much of the essentialism of race, activists and educators can use “mixed-race” status as a means to develop a critique of divisive race politics and a polycultural perspective. The polycultural perspective on humanity provides an opportunity to transcend racial division and to develop working-class solidarity.

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Working-Class Identity/Consciousness

Inherent in any working-class cultural expression is an examination of the capitalist system and the effects of poverty on working people and their identities. The conclusions drawn about capitalism and working-class identity vary according to a number of other influences, such as racial/ethnic identity, nationalism, loyalty to capitalism (false consciousness), and employment status and type. So, for example, Chicano “gangsta” rappers recognize that they are oppressed because of their class status, but they fall short of having a “class consciousness” in the Marxian or anarchist sense due to their acceptance of capitalist ethics, including that of competition over cooperation. Chicano “gangsta” rappers believe in an extreme form of individualism—or, at best, tribalism—that is rejected by the internationalism of anarchists, Marxists, and others. Their position as a “surplus labor force” for capital and a racialized subgroup of the working class forces them to be in contact with the most vicious and selfish aspects of capitalism. It is the capitalist dog-eat-dog world that teaches them to “get rich or die tryin’,” to quote black rap superstar 50 Cent. They correctly analyze that wealth and power are built on exploitation and violence. Without a critique of capitalism and their acceptance of the desire for wealth and power, their working-class identity becomes violent and nationalistic, even fascist in orientation.

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On the other hand, Chican@/Mexican American street-hop artists develop a working-class identity that includes class consciousness. Without letting go of their ethno-racial identities, these artists express solidarity and identify with non–Chicano/Mexican American members of the working class. In many songs, street-hop artists identify themselves directly as working-class or poor. Krazy Race’s song “Get Up, Stand Up” “pay[s] homage to all those who came before us,” including a multicultural, multiracial, and international group of revolutionaries and rebels. Krazy Race acknowledges his revolutionary class consciousness and working-class identity, rapping that “This ain’t a race card, homie. / I ride with the Left / I’ll stand up for my rights till the day of my death.” Much the same can be said about the work of “Mexican nationalist” artists such as Akwid and Kinto Sol who speak about the importance of the Mexican laboring classes to the United States. Additionally, these emcees collaborate with artists of many different racial/ethnic backgrounds, and with artists from many places across the globe. They have solidarity or hermandad (brotherhood) with the global poor and colonized. Krazy Race’s recent participation in concert fundraisers for Japanese victims of the devastating tsunami of 2011 and for the homeless in Los Angeles illustrates the international and cross-racial working-class consciousness within street hop. The working-class consciousness of Chicano street-hop artists includes displacing elites, often through violence, but rarely offers a different vision for a new society. In order to develop an egalitarian vision of society, they require dialogue and engagement with progressive activists and revolutionaries. For this reason and many others discussed throughout the book, I find an examination of Chicano/Mexican American identity in hip-hop to be valuable. Those struggling for social change and social justice should pay particular attention to young Chican@/Mexican American voices. This is the voice of a “new American” working class. Their analyses of our times, and the information they provide about themselves and their perspective are crucial to building a revolutionary working-class movement. A working-class movement that sees the working classes as an undifferentiated mass is likely to meet defeat, since working-class people do not simply have a class identity, but also multilayered ethnic identities. These ethnic identities contain the very mechanisms by which they have been able to survive racist, imperialist capitalism. The placebased moralities, ethics, perspectives, and spiritualities developed over centuries by the colonized are the very forces that make life worth living for many. Careful attention to their racialized class experience and identities, and engaged dialogue with the ChHHN can assist in developing cross-racial, cross-cultural solidarity and affiliation.

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Immigrant Consciousness

A growing portion of the Mexican diaspora in the United States is made up of immigrants and their children. This important subset of U.S. Mexicans has a working-class and racialized Mexican experience as well as an experience of being displaced from their homes and criminalized. Any liberatory, revolutionary, or leftist movement must recognize the unique nature of this group of Mexicans and their relationship to other U.S. workers. The work of Akwid, Kinto Sol, Chingo Bling, and Mexiclan speak to this uniqueness and to how young Mexican immigrants and 1.5 and 2nd generation Mexicans understand themselves and their place in U.S. society. When Akwid or Kinto Sol point out in their lyrics that members of the Mexican diaspora do much of the “unskilled” and “semi-skilled” work today in the United States, they are describing an important trend in capitalist-worker relations. For social-justice advocates and others, this should signal two things: an appreciation for the contributions that immigrants make to all of our lives, and the use of immigration legislation by the ruling class as a technique of power undermining all workers. Both, if framed properly, can be a means of overcoming racial and nationalist divides and helping the development of working-class consciousness and solidarity.

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Macho Privilege

The rhetoric of Chicano/Mexicano emcees includes a very static, binary notion of gender. The patriarchal, heteronormative orientation found throughout our society further divides the working class. All are taught to understand gender relations in extremely exploitive ways, with men and women trying to get the upper hand on each other. Of course, men have the advantage in this as their worldview, and the strategies and tactics that stem from it are validated in the larger society. The sexism and machismo found in hip-hop reflect the norm of our society. Women, at least half of the working class, remain in a subordinate position. They play a similar role as people of color in that their super-exploitation makes the exploitation of male workers seem like privilege. In our sexist society, women become the spoils of war, the booty,2 that men can earn if they follow the rules set by capitalism. Just as the worker is alienated from the product of his labor and other workers under capitalist economic relations, men are alienated from women under capitalist gender relations. The competition and ethic that result from this arrangement benefit the ruling classes, who can dangle luxury goods and luxury women in front of men in trade for their loyalty to the bosses. Fashion, advertising, and popular culture

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of all sorts commodifies women. Men of the Mexican diaspora influenced by the patriarchy of the dominant culture, as well as that of their own cultural traditions, perpetuate misogyny through their cultural expression (McFarland 2008a). Those social-justice advocates and revolutionaries who lack an understanding of hip-hop and/or gender in its broadest sense often dismiss the HHN as vulgar, sexist, and violent. There is overwhelming documentary evidence that it is that way. The question that must be better understood involves whether or not the HHN is any more sexist and violent than the broader culture, or a mere reflection of it. There is plenty of evidence to suggest that it is not more violent. Members of the HHN do not make policy or pass or enforce laws that control women’s bodies or limit their participation in society. Yet, their frequent degrading representation of women normalizes women’s inferiority, which paves the way for such policy implementation and cultural negation of women’s value (Jhally 2007). A better understanding of gender dynamics in our society and within hip-hop, and an ability to overcome the negative stereotype of the HHN by actually engaging the evidence, would assist us in further understanding the identities and politics of hip-hop headz. I also suggest the possibility that an analysis of the lyrics of hip-hop will tell us a great deal about the dynamics of gender today. We may well find that hip-hop is more sexist than the larger society, though I doubt it. If we do find this, then we must figure out how to solve the problem and not simply dismiss a large sector of an entire generation.

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Promise

Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop illustrates and informs new understandings of Chican@/ Mexican@ identity. These identities may or may not be transformative, and in the case of some, the identities express homophobic, sexist, and capitalist values that are hardly liberatory. The central argument of this final chapter is that committed teachers and professors can use hip-hop, including that created by Chican@s/Mexican@s, in developing a pedagogy of liberation. Its polycultural nature challenges what we know about race and could be part of a strategy for transcending racial difference. The unabashed maleness of the ChHHN offers important opportunities to investigate issues related to gender, sexism, and homophobia. Its examination of violence allows for deeper, more nuanced understanding of peace and violence. However, in order for hip-hop to fulfill the promises of its freedom-dreaming and liberation myth-making, emcees require engagement with social-justice advocates and revolutionaries. At the same time, revolutionary leftist and social-justice movements require dialogue with hip-hop’s organic intellectuals and audience. The language, resistant identities, and cultural practices of much of hip-hop provide

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activists with a new way of understanding the local effects of neoliberal capitalism. In other words, the Left should pay attention to alterNative cultures, like that of hip-hop, that manipulate the dominant culture for their own good, and utilize indigenous traditions and newly developed perspectives to develop their human potential in the face of neoliberal, racist, sexist, homophobic capitalism. Too often, leftists in the ivory tower or tucked away in activist silos are disengaged from the on-the-ground struggles of the racialized working class. Moreover, the class fetishism of much of the Left limits a more nuanced and thorough analysis of the impacts of contemporary capitalism. The economic determinism of communists and activists influenced by Marxism-Leninism misses key aspects of domination often examined in the work of hip-hop emcees. The anarchist focus on all forms of domination and irrational authority (this perspective is sometimes called “revolutionary pluralism”) provides a much more complex and realistic set of concepts and ideas to help us overcome contemporary exploitation (McKay 2007). Shannon, Nocella, and Asimakopoulos (2012) explain anarchism’s broad understanding of hierarchy and authority, writing that “Anarchism, on the other hand, is a critique of domination that typically is not reducible to economics—or even economics and political life” (15). Anarchists, due to their attention to sexism, racism, ecological destruction, and all other forms of domination, can provide useful insight into the HHN that will help them foreground the liberatory aspects of their worldviews and identities while challenging their exploitive aspects. An anarchist prefigurative economics can fill the gap in the critical perspective found in much of Chican@/Mexican@ hip-hop. Anarchist economics attempts to “prefigure the kind of world we wish to create” (32). As such, it examines current and past economic practices that demonstrate anarchist economic ideals such as mutualism, communism, and decentralized, radically local decision making. Moreover, anarchist economics critiques the pillars of the capitalist economic system, including wage labor, private property, market relations, class, and the state. The ChHHN has responded well to anarchistic political and economic arrangements, such as their support for South Central Farms, which is based on local governance, production for need, rejection of profit as a goal of their productive activity, and community self-organization. While some conduct benefit concerts for such efforts or are actively engaged in such projects, their analysis of economics is limited and lags behind their criticism of state and racial power. Dialogue between anarchists and progressive-minded emcees can turn the liberatory potential of ChHHN rhetoric into practice. Like an anarchist vision of individual freedom to develop one’s human potential and to create a postcapitalist world of equality through free association, hip-hop as an organic creation of colonized people can be a means to decolonize the mind,

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to freedom-dream. The anarchist sees individual human freedom as an interactive process that can only be achieved in relation to society. The freedom of any individual depends on the freedom of all. Bakunin (2005a, 171) explains the relationship between individual freedom and society in this way: “Outside of society, man would not only not be free, but would not even have become truly man, which is to say a being possessed of self-awareness, sentient, thoughtful and with the gift of speech. Only the conjunction of intellect and collective endeavor could have compelled man to quit the savage and brutish condition which was his pristine nature.” Similarly, the highest virtue in hip-hop is individual creativity within a community. It cherishes individual excellence, and the best of it longs for equity. Therein lies its potential and promise. Kemo’s liberation mythology as explicated in his song “Be Free” (2010) epitomizes the promise of hip-hop. The chorus sums up hip-hop’s desires for equity and freedom: “Kids, be free. / Do whatever it is that you want to do, now / just as long as you don’t hurt anybody. / Don’t, don’t hurt anybody.”

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A PPEND IX

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Kid Frost. 1990. Hispanic Causing Panic. Virgin. Kinto Sol. 2003. Hecho en Mexico. Maximo. —. 2004. Del Norte al Sur. Disa. —. 2005. La Sangre Nunca Muere. Disa. —. 2007. Hijos del Maíz. Univision. —. 2010. El Ultimo Suspiro. Machete. Knightowl. 1998. “The Baddest Muthafucker.” Wicked West. Eastside Records. —. 2000. “West Coast Party.” Knightmares. Sawed Off Records. Krazy Race. 2003. “Up to Us.” The Never Ending Battle. 5th Battalion Records. —. 2004. New World Order. Realizm Rekords. —. 2006. The Movement: Strength in Numbers. Realizm Rekords. —. 2009. Chronicles of a Krazy Race. Realizm Rekords. KRS-One and Marley Marl. 2007. “Hip Hop Lives.” Hip Hop Lives. Koch Records. La Bruja. 2008. Brujalicious. De la Luz Records. Lee Coc. 2008. “Street Shit.” Light of the Dark. W.A.R.R.I.O.R. Records. Lil Rob. 1997. “Do My Thing,” “Oh What a Night,” and “Soy Chingon.” Crazy Life. Familia Records. —. 2000. “High Till I Die.” High Till I Die Remix. Low Profile Records. —. 2001. “Naughty Boy.” Can’t Keep a Good Man Down. Low Profile Records. LL Cool J. 1990. “Around the Way Girl.” Mama Said Knock You Out. Um3. Los Crux. 2008. “Cruxican Street Music.” The World Is Ours, vol. 2. Realizm Rekords. Los Nativos. 2003. Día de los Muertos. Rhymesayers Entertainment. —. 2004. Red Star Fist. Rhymesayers Entertainment. —. 2009. Los Nativos website. www.losnativos.com. Lupe Fiasco. 2008. The Cool. Atlantic Records. MC Nejma Shea and Realizm Rekords. 2010. Queens of the Mic. Realizm Rekords. Medusa. 2010. “Know Thyself.” Queens of the Mic. Realizm Rekords. Mexiclan. 2005. Mexiclanos Unidos. Univision. Nas. 1996. “If I Ruled the World.” It Was Written. Columbia Records. Notorious B.I.G. 1997. “One More Chance.” Ready to Die. Bad Boy Entertainment. N.W.A. 1988. “A Bitch Is a Bitch” and “F the Police.” Straight Outta Compton. Priority. Olmeca. 2009. www.myspace.com/olmeca. Psycho Realm. 1997. The Psycho Realm. Ruffhouse. —. 1999. A War Story, Book I. Sick Symphonies, Inc. —. 2003. A War Story, Book II. Sick Symphonies, Inc. Reflection Eternal (Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek). 2000. “For Women.” Train of Thought. Priority Records. Sick Jacken. 2009. Stray Bullets. Sick Symphonies, Inc. Sick Symphonies. 2005. Sickside Stories. Sick Symphonies, Inc.

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Sicko Soldado. 2008. “Double Life” and “Good Smoke.” Sicko Soldado. Dead Silence Records. Simone, Nina. 1959. “Four Women.” My Baby Just Comes for Me. Golden Stars. Sir Mix-a-Lot. 1992. “I Like Big Butts.” Mack Daddy. Uptown. Stomper. 2010. “Aztlán Is the Truth.” Once Upon a Time in America. Urban Kings Music Group. Thief Sicario. 2008. Education of a Felon. Realizm Rekords. —. 2010. Honor among Thieves. Realizm Rekords. Tolteka. 2004. Knowledge and Wisdom. Xicano Records and Film. 2Mex. 2001. B-boys in Occupied Mexico. Meanstreet. —. 2003. Sweat Lodge Infinite. Temporary. —. 2004. 2Mex. Image. Victor E. 2008. Reflexiones en Yangna, Califaztlan. A.I.M. —. 2009. www.myspace.com/hastavictore. —. N.d. Black and Red Ink. Xicano Records and Film. Wu Tang Clan. 1993. “C.R.E.A.M.” Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers). Loud. Zarate, Juan. 2008. “Café” and “El Santuario.” El Sacrificio. Virus Enterprises.

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Notes

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P R E FA C E

1. I use the slightly awkward spellings “Chican@” to refer to both males and females of Mexican descent living in the United States, and “Mexican@” to refer to Mexican-born people living in the United States. These spellings have begun to replace “Chicana/o” and “Mexicana/o” in some academic circles. I use “Chicano” and “Mexicano” when referring to males only. I use “people of Mexican descent,” “Mexicans,” “Chican@,” “people of the Mexican diaspora” and “Mexican Americans” as roughly equivalent terms and use them interchangeably. However, in many contexts one term is preferable to make important distinctions among the Mexican-origin population in the United States. 2. I use Marxist and anarchist language and theory knowing full well the differences and antagonisms between the two groups and their theories. Both, however, use a scientific method to conclude that capitalism is a set of political, economic, and social practices that oppress workers while enriching capitalists. Their critiques of the capitalist system are nearly identical, as Marx borrowed heavily from Proudhon’s earlier analysis of capitalism (McKay, 2011) and subsequent Marxists and anarchists borrowed and adopted each other’s ideas as part of the international working-class movements of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Anarchism’s focus on hierarchies of all forms distinguishes it from the economic focus of most Marxists. In addition, anarchists recognize diversity and therefore reject the centralized decision making and party rule common to many Marxist thinkers and activists.

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When the artists examined in this study discuss the economic system, they speak, at least superficially, in Marxist and anarchist terminology. However, they, like anarchists, see other systems of domination at work that also must be addressed. These basic precepts are common to all forms of anarchism. Thus, we can define anarchism in this way: “a political theory that aims to create a society which is without political, economic or social hierarchies. Anarchists maintain that anarchy, the absence of rulers, is a viable form of social system and so work for the maximization of individual liberty and social equality” (McKay 2007, 21). Some neoprimitivist anarchists and ‘anarcho’-capitalists call themselves anarchists, but their adherence to antisocial and hierarchical beliefs and behaviors means that they should be placed outside of the anarchist set of theories and practices (McKay 2007). See any number of anarchist theorists writing since the mid-1800s including Mikhail Bakunin (2005a, 2005b, 2011); Alexander Berkman (1929); Noam Chomsky (1970); Daniel Guerin (1970, 2005); Peter Kropotkin (1988, 2006, 2011); Errico Malatesta (1891); Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (McKay 2011); Shannon, Nocella, and Asimakopoulos (2012); and Colin Ward (1973, 2011).

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3. Ricardo Flores Magón argued in “The Mexican People Are Suited to Communism” (Bufe and Verter 2005, 176–78) that indigenous Mexican society was essentially anarcho-communist. In this article, published in 1911, Flores Magón wrote: “Four million Indians live in Mexico who, until twenty or twenty-five years ago, lived in communities possessing the lands, the waters, and the forests in common. Mutual aid was the rule in these communities.” Gomez-Quiñonez (1979) examines the import of the anarchist ideas of Flores Magón and the Partido Liberal Mexicano (PLM) for people of Mexican descent in the United States during the early decades of the twentieth century. 4. Ricardo Flores Magón and the PLM were central to the burgeoning revolution movement that became the Mexican Revolution in 1910. They worked extensively along the U.S.-Mexican border. Flores Magón and the other PLM leaders spent most of their active years in the United States working to organize Chicano and Mexican immigrant/refugee communities. Their influence and popularity among U.S. Mexicans is evident in the wide circulation of its newspapers and its active member rolls. See Juan Gomez-Quiñonez’s important work Sembradores: Ricardo Flores Magón and El Partido Liberal Mexicano: A Eulogy and Critique (1979).

CHAPTER 1. QUIÉN ES MÁS MACHO? QUIÉN ES MÁS MEXICANO?: CHICAN@ AND MEXICAN@ IDENTITIES IN RAP

1. All of the transcriptions and translations were prepared by me from original recordings unless otherwise noted. For the purposes of this book, I have standardized English and Spanish punctuation. 2. Herrera-Sobek 1990; hooks 2003; Jhally 2007, 1999; Karp 2010; Kimmel 1994; Mutua 2006. 3. See Marshall (2009, 28–29) for a discussion of the “hip-hop beat.” 4. See the comments of Cypress Hill’s DJ Muggs in the documentary Rhyme and Reason (Spirer 1997). 5. The music of hip-hop reflects African diasporic culture as it shares a number of musical traits with other West and South African–based musics and through sampling reinterprets

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music from throughout the African diaspora in many historical periods. Useful discussions of this issue can be found in Chang 2007; Hoch 2007; Keyes 2008, 2002; Rose 1994. 6. See Prashad (2001) for discussion of this concept. 7. This term was first used in my article “Chicano Rap Roots: Black-Brown Cultural Exchange and the Making of a Genre” (2006a). 8. The Mexican diaspora includes Mexican-born immigrants and U.S.-born Chican@s. 9. Eure and Spady (1991) develop the concept of HHNL. 10. See chapter 2 for a discussion of place. 11. “To school” is hip-hop slang with multiple meanings. Among these meanings are “to show,” “to educate,” “to open one’s eyes to,” and “to teach a lesson to a subordinate or inferior.” I use the term here to suggest merely that I want to teach my perspective to readers of this work. 12. For a thorough discussion of the relationship between colonialism, culture, and hip-hop, see Ball 2011. 13. A good body of work has begun to investigate Afro-Mexicans, Afro-Latin@s, and the African influence on Latin America. Jesse Hingson’s (n.d.) “The Wealth of Afro-Mexican Studies into the 21st Century” is an excellent overview of this work. See also Manuel Moreno Fraginals, Africa en America (1982); California State University, Black Latin America: A Bibliography (1977); W. J. Nelson, “Africans in Colonial Mexico,” South Eastern Latin Americanist (1996); R. Mellafe, Breve historia de la esclavitud negra en America Latina (1973). 14. On hip-hop, see McFarland 2008a, 2006a; on lowriding, see Yamaoka 1998; for discussions of graffiti practices, see Phillips 1999; on street style and culture, see Vigil 2002.

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C H A P T E R 2 . B A R R I O L O G O S : T H E S A C R E D A N D P R O FA N E WORD OF CHICANO EMCEES

1. Perea (1998, 583) discusses Latino invisibility, which he defines as “a relative lack of positive public identity and legitimacy.” 2. I borrow this very useful term from H. Samy Alim 2006. 3. See also M. K. Asante 2008. 4. See Peña 2005 for complete analysis of the advanced agropastoral science and technology developed over centuries by indigenous Mexicans. 5. See Ball 2011 for a discussion of how the economically disenfranchised colonial subject has some level of autonomy from the colonizer since s/he does not depend on them for wages. 6. Ball once again proves insightful as he discusses a form of posttraumatic stress disorder found among the colonized black population in the United States. He cites a study that shows that “Black people living in South Central Los Angeles today have higher rates of post-traumatic stress disorder than those living in Baghdad” (2011, 35). 7. See Alvarez 2008 for a discussion of how pachucos sought dignity through the transformation of their bodies and clothes during the war years. 8. An excellent source for viewing Chican@ tatuajes is the Brown Pride online archive at www.

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brownpride.com and the photography site www.salrojas.com. 9. It should be noted that resistance to authority is the defining concept of anarchism. As was noted earlier, anarchist and Marxist thought have been influential with Mexicans in the United States. The anarchist tendencies of Chicano street-hoppers, especially, will be examined in more depth later in the book. It is enough here to note the similarity of thought, even while anarchists would suggest that a lack of class consciousness and organization can and does lead to pathological, fratricidal violence among many of these youth. 10. Ball (2011, 51) points to the use of a colonizing religion to “facilitate [the] oppression of the colonized.” 11. See these exemplary songs among many others: “Small Axe,” “Dem Belly Full,” and “Buffalo Soldier.” Lyrics to many of Marley’s songs can be found at www.elyrics.net among many other websites. Catch a Fire, a biography of Bob Marley, examines lyrics to many songs in the context of Marley’s life and historical events (White 1992). 12. See Mirandé 1990; Romo 1983; Olguín 2010; McFarland 2008a; Paredes 1959. 13. See Ana Castillo’s Massacre of the Dreamers: Essays on Xicanisma (1994) for a detailed analysis of the chingón. 14. Rodriguez 2009 examines the figure of the gang member as the prototypical chingón, and the gang as extension of la familia.

CHAPTER 3. SONIDO INDÍGENA: MEXICA HIP-HOP

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AND MASCULINE IDENTITY

This chapter was previously published in Performing the US Latina and Latino Borderlands, edited by Arturo J. Aldama, Chela Sandoval, and Peter J. Garcia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2012), 402–418. 1. See the following for information and music from indigenous/Mexica rappers: El Vuh, Jaguar Prophecies and Elvuhlution (2007), www.elvuh.com; Victor E. 2009; Olmeca 2009; Tolteka 2008; Kiawtl (formerly Lady Binx) 2009. Others use the ideas, concepts, and beliefs of indigenous/Mexica people in their music, but do not necessarily identify with indigenous/ Mexica. 2. Laura Pulido (1996, 164) writes that “Nature-society relations is a broad term which refers to how particular groups of people interact with their environment.” 3. See Virginia Escalante 2000 for explanations of corporate media representations of Chicanos. 4. Richard T. Rodriguez’s (2009) book, Next of Kin, especially the chapter “Verse of the Godfather,” is the best source for a discussion of gender, race, and sexuality in Chican@ hip-hop; Robin D. G. Kelley (2002) describes masculinity as a key aspect of black nationalism in the twentieth century. 5. The spelling of “Chicano” with an “X” instead of a “Ch” at the beginning is preferred by many neo-Mexicas. This spelling refers back to the phonology of the Mexica in which the “x” was pronounced with a “sh” sound. 6. See Mario Barrera (1980) for discussion of “internal colonialism,” and Ball (2011) for

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contemporary use of internal colonial theory (ICT) to understand hip-hop. 7. Chicano derives from the term Mexica (pronounced meshica). Spanish colonizers changed meshica to mechica. The diminutive suffix -ano was added to form mechicano. The term was eventually shorted to chicano. Chicano began to refer to “poor little Indians” and was used as a derogatory term. Between the 1940s and 1970s, people of Mexican descent in the United States began to recuperate and redefine the term as an ethnic self-identifier with positive connotations referring to their ancient history in the Americas. 8. See Marshall (2009, 28–29) for discussion of the standard hip-hop beat. 9. See Ball (2011) for a discussion of how corporations exploit the rapper work force. 10. www.losnativos.com 2009. 11. I use the term “relations” keeping in mind the sentiment expressed by the Lakota greeting mitakuye oyasin or “all my relations.” The Mayan in lak’ech (you are my other me) reflects a similar sentiment. The sayings reflect an indigenous ontology that views all people, all beings, and, in some cases, nonsentient beings as related to each other in an intricate web of life. 12. Escalante 2000; Keller 1994; McFarland 2008a. 13. See Audre Lorde (1984) for her theorization of this idea. 14. For more on social bandits, see Rosenbaum 1981; Paredes 1959; McFarland 2008a. 15. See Herrera-Sobek (1990) and Zavella (2003) for discussions of this in Mexican/Chicano patriarchal male thought and expressive culture. 16. Herrera-Sobek 1990; for discussion of this figure in Chicano rap see McFarland (2008a, 25–26, 75–78). 17. Almas Intocables consists of Lady Binx, Jehuniko, and Ikuestion. See McFarland (2008a, 43) and see Almas Intocables website. Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

18. McFarland 2008a, 2006a. 19. Kiawitl’s website, www.myspace.com/kiawitlxochil, 2010. 20. Cihuatl Ce’s music and other writings can be found on her MySpace Web page, www.myspace. com/cihutal1. 21. McFarland, 2008a, 2006a.

C H A P T E R 4 . PA Í S A S , C O M PA S , I N M I G R A N T E S : MEXICANIDAD IN HIP-HOP

1. Kinto Sol’s popularity is exemplified by their numerous industry awards, including a Latin Grammy. 2. See Peña 1998, 2005 for a systematic discussion of the ideas alluded to by Kinto Sol. 3. De la Mora (2006) discusses the “woman as betrayer” trope in Mexican cinema. 4. Kelley (2002) describes a similar use of humor in the blues tradition to show the utter ignorance of racism and racists. 5. Dyson (2004, 67) defines sampling as “the grafting of music, voices, and beats from another

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sonic source onto a rap record.” “Biting” is the forbidden practice of stealing someone else’s style or lyrics. 6. See chapters 2, 5, and 7 for analyses of drug trafficking and use in Chican@ hip-hop music. 7. See chapter 2 for a discussion of rasquachismo. For a more fully developed analysis of this practice and ethic, see Ybarra-Frausto 1991. 8. See chapters 6 and 7 for further discussion of “macho.”

CHAPTER 5. BARRIO LOCOS: STREET HOP AND AMERIKAN IDENTITY

1. See Ricardo Flores Magón’s articles “The Right to Rebel,” “Death to Authority!” and “Discord” (Bufe and Verter 2005) for discussion of the right to resist, break unjust laws, and engage in noncooperation with authority. 2. Details regarding the U.S. colonization of Northern Mexico can be found in numerous history texts by Chican@ authors. A good general history remains Rodolfo Acuña’s Occupied America (2010). 3. For a similar song from a black, streetwise perspective, see Big L’s “Ebonics” (2000). See Alexs Pate’s analysis of this song in his In the Heart of the Beat (2010, 53–65). 4. For discussions of black language practices, see Baugh 1999, 1984; and Alim 2006. For discussions of resistant language-use practices in hip-hop throughout the world, see Alim 2009; and Alim, Ibrahim, and Pennycook 2009.

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5. See Ed Morales 2003 for a discussion of various varieties of Spanglish spoken by Latinas/os throughout the United States. 6. See McFarland 2008a for a discussion of Cypress Hill’s influence on numerous Chicano hip-hop artists. 7. See Churchill and Vander Wall 1988 for discussion of cointelpro. 8. See Althusser’s classic Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (2001) for a thorough discussion of ISAs. 9. An illuminating argument regarding the manner in which the state limits human freedom and individuality can be found in Max Stirner’s The Ego and His Own (1843), sections of which are reproduced in Guerin 2005. 10. See Alex Constantine’s (2000) The Covert War against Rock for extended discussion of these ideas. 11. As it turns out, the words are Charles Manson’s from his statements at the Tate-LaBianca murder trial. 12. See Bufe and Verter 2005; and Gomez-Quiñonez 1979. 13. Hermann and Brodhead discuss the concept of demonstration elections in their classic from 1984, Demonstration Elections. 14. See Mills’s classic explication of the concept in The Power Elite (2000). 15. Anarchists differ from Marxists on this point. Marxists call for a centralized entity, particularly

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a party, to regulate production, while anarchists believe that the regulation of production and other aspects of society should be conducted at the local level. See, for example, Guerin 2005; Kropotkin 1988, 2006, 2011; Shannon, Nocella, and Asimakopoulos 2012; McKay 2011. 16. For discussions of a history of police abuses against Chicanos/Mexicanos see Paredes, 1959; Mirande 1990; Perez McCluskey and Villarruel 2007; Escobar, Vigil 1999; Cross 1993; and Olguin 2009. 17. Fanon’s (1961, 99) advice about colonized and decolonizing nations is informative here also: “The Third World ought not to be content to define itself in the terms of values which have preceded it. On the contrary, the underdeveloped countries ought to do their utmost to find their particular values and methods and style which shall be peculiar to them.” 18. See chapter 7 for a more thorough discussion of hypermasculine violence in rap lyrics. 19. See, for example, Flores Magón’s “Solidarity,” in Bufe and Verter 2005, 278–80. 20. This section originally appeared as a review in the online journal Bad Subjects. 21. The video for “Amerika” can be found on YouTube at www.youtube.com. 22. See Tricia Rose’s classic Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America (1994) for a discussion of the key elements of hip-hop music, which she labels “sampling,” “layering,” and “rupture.” Marshall 2009 describes the typical hip-hop boom-boom-bap rhythm. 23. The video for “Aztlán Is the Truth” can be found at www.youtube.com. 24. See Arturo Aldama’s Disrupting Savagism (2001) for a discussion of this, and how Chican@ writers have challenged this label.

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25. A thorough and thoughtful analysis of this problem can be found in the book and movie Affluenza (De Graff et al. 2001).

C H A P T E R 6 . M U LT I R A C I A L M A C H O : K E M O T H E B L A X I C A N ’ S HIP-HOP MASCULINITY

1. This phrase is borrowed from Luis Alvarez in the article of the same title and his study of zoot-suit culture, The Power of the Zoot. 2. See chapter 7 for a more complete discussion of the “macho.” 3. Kemo similarly critiques state violence against Mexican people in “Quiero Volar” (2004), rapped solely in Spanish. 4. Differing analyses and critiques of the consumer ethic in the United States include Affluenza and How to Make Opportunity Equal (Gomberg 2007). 5. Kemo speaks similarly about luxury items and his family in “A Little Rain.” 6. In the chorus to “A Little Rain” (2007), Kemo similarly encourages people with “everything’s gonna be ok / cuz everything’s gonna be alright / you win / you lose / you laugh, you cry / you love, you hate / you live, you die.” 7. In Chicano film production, Fregoso (1993) refers to this as the “male-centered lineage.” 8. See Habell-Pallán 2005 for analyses of Chicana and Chicano musicians and performers influenced by the punk-rock aesthetic and attitude of the 1970s and 1980s. Like many Chican@

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hip-hop artists, El Vez, Marisela Norte, and Luis Alfaro, among many other artists, explode boundaries and borders associated with white dominant notions of Mexicans and Chicano nationalist reductionism.

CHAPTER 7. THE RAP ON CHICANO/MEXICANO AND BLACK M A S C U L I N I T Y : G E N D E R A N D C R O S S - C U LT U R A L E X C H A N G E

Dr. Leslie Baker-Kimmons coauthored this chapter, which appeared in an earlier form as “The Rap on Chicano and Black Masculinity: A Content Analysis of Gender Images in Rap Lyrics” in Race, Gender and Class 19, no. 3–4 (2012): 331–44. 1. Octavio Paz, in his well-known and influential Labyrinth of Solitude, argues similarly that the Conquest has had a negative psychological effect on Mexicanos and Chicanos, leading to a sense of inadequacy. His condemnation of the Mexican and Chicano psyche has been a source of controversy regarding the representation and understanding of Mexicans and Chicanos. 2. The top 100 most-popular black-male rap songs were randomly selected from Billboard magazine’s top-selling rap songs for this time period. 3. Chicano rap music is not charted in the same manner as black rap music. Therefore, the top 100 most popular Chicano-male rap songs were randomly selected from a population of approximately 500 Chicano rap songs collected by participant observation of Mexican American rap aficionados included in a previous study conducted by the author. 4. See also chapter 2 for an extended discussion of the uses of marijuana in Chicano rap poems.

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5. See Sut Jhally’s informative documentaries Dreamworlds, volumes 1–3, for extended discussion of this in popular music videos. 6. See Hakim Bey (1991) for discussions of temporary autonomous zones where people live for a while outside the restrictions of the dominant, capitalist society.

CHAPTER 8. “SOY LA KALLE”: RADIO, REGGAETÓN, A N D L AT I N @ I D E N T I T Y

1. The concept la raza cósmica (the cosmic race) referred to in the lyrics excerpt was first developed by Mexican author and government official José Vasconcelos. See his The Cosmic Race/La Raza Cósmica (1979). 2. Ybarra-Frausto, 1991. 3. In Living in Spanglish (2003), Ed Morales’s most illustrative example is the group Santana and their hit song “Oye Como Va.” Puerto Rican salsa music legend Tito Puente composed “Oye Como Va.” The song’s rhythmic structures, instrumentation, energy, and outlook mark it as part of the salsa tradition—a tradition created primarily by New York Puerto Ricans (nuyoricans), based on the African rhythms developed over centuries in Cuba. Santana took Puente’s song, added psychedelic guitars and other 1960s rock elements, and drew a multiracial audience. Santana is led by Carlos Santana, a Latino of Mexican origin who spent

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the years of his musical maturity amid the countercultural environment of San Francisco. “Oye Como Va” was a hit song that used United States technology and countercultural sentiment to turn a Cuban-based, Puerto Rican–composed song performed by a Mexican American bandleader to attract large numbers of Latin@ fans. The extremely popular East Los Angeles Mexican American group Los Lobos further illustrates the appeal of Caribbean and other black musics to people of Mexican descent. Los Lobos play a wide variety of music, most of which has roots in the African diaspora, including Afro-Latino styles. 4. The United States Bureau of the Census counted 35 million Hispanics (or Latinas and Latinos). The actual number of Latin@s is not known. Consider that the federal census undercounts marginalized groups such as racial/ethnic minorities and immigrants. In addition, new arrivals from immigration and births since 2000 mean that hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Latin@s have been added to the total U.S. population since the census. Today the total population of Latin@s in the United States is closer to 40 million than 35 million. 5. See the vast and growing literature on food access, food injustice, and food deserts for data supporting the argument that price of goods/services and availability of food options account for distorted spending habits of blacks and Latinos. 6. Three-fourths of the Latin@ homes are bilingual, and only 10 percent are monolingual Spanish speakers. Importantly, two-thirds of Latin@ children have at least one foreign-born parent (Ready and Brown-Gort 2005). 7. www.youthintelligence.com.

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8. Interview with Ezgar Ramos, June 29, 2006. 9. The students ranged in age from 18 to 40 with the majority being of traditional college age. All but two were born in the United States and were bilingual. Most spoke English more often than Spanish. All but one student, who claimed to be both black and white, claim to be Latino. Students also used several other ethnic/racial identifiers. Mexican/Mexican American was the most common ethnic label after Latino/Hispanic. They all listened to reggaetón music, though there was a range of involvement with this music and culture. Only one reported being disappointed with the music and said he did not listen to it. Eleven of the fourteen said that La Kalle was one of the radio stations that they listened to regularly. 10. Hernandez Cuevas 2004. 11. Tego Calderón (2009), one of reggaetón’s superstars, discusses anti-black racism in Latin America as it relates to reggaetón. 12. Ivy Queen 2005. For the complete lyrics, go to www.reggaeton.com. 13. See Alfredo Nieves Moreno’s (2009) discussion of the popular reggaetón group Calle 13, for example. 14. See Marshall 2009 for a thorough discussion of dembow as central to reggaetón music.

CHAPTER 9. TEACHING HIP-HOP: A PEDAGOGY FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE

1. See also Bragg and McFarland 2007. 2. McFarland 2008a; Baker-Kimmons and McFarland 2010.

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3. McFarland 2008a; Baker-Kimmons and McFarland 2010; Rivera, Marshall, and Pacini Hernandez 2009; Armstrong 2001. 4. McFarland 2008a; Hansen 1995; Johnson et al. 1995. 5. “Cop Killer” is actually a speed metal song and not a rap song. However, since Body Count’s lead singer is better known as a rap veteran, many have discussed it as rap or hip-hop. 6. See Keyes 2002 for a discussion of “reversioning.” 7. See chapter 1 for detailed discussion of black-Chican@ relations. 8. For discussions of these, see the following: Alvarez 2008; M. García 1998; Hernandez Cuevas 2004; Horne 2005; Pulido 1996, 2006; McFarland 2006a; Yamaoka 1998. 9. I purposefully write, “at least since the sixteenth century,” when masses of Amerindians and Africans began to interact, because a great deal of evidence has been compiled to argue that Africans made contact with Mesoamericans long before the arrival of Europeans. Van Sertima’s groundbreaking They Came before Columbus (2003) is the most significant text exploring these issues.

AFTERWORD. HIP-HOP AND FREEDOM-DREAMING IN THE MEXICAN DIASPORA

1. While there are a number of different types of anarchism, all have a similar critique of authority, including the irrational authority of capitalism and the bourgeois “democratic” state. The differences between the different kinds of anarchism revolve around the strategies and tactics used by each to achieve a truly free and equitable society. The different types of anarchism include “anarcho-syndicalism,” “anarcho-communism,” and “anarcho-feminism.” Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

2. See Hill Collins 2004 for a discussion of this concept.

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Index

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A “A.E.I.O.U.,” 85 Afrika Baambaata, 29; and Universal Zulu Nation, 29 Akwid, 4, 103–11, 253 “Al Ataque,” 102 “All Falls Down,” 224 “All My Native Vatos,” 70–72 “all our relations,” 78. See also mitakuye oyasin Almas Intocables, 75 alterNative, 7, 153, 252, 256 America, 8, 117 Americanization, 105. See also assimilation Amerika, 117, 119–54; song by Thief Sicario, 146–49 Anahuac, 62, 63 anahuacentrism, 58, 62–63 anarchism, 127, 148, 154, 250, 257; and freedom, 257; and Marxism, 263, 264 (n. 2),

268 (n.1); in Mexico, xiv; and outlaws, 120; against the state, 128; and street hop, types of, 272 (n.1) anarchists, 131, 132; economics of, 256; Mexican, 130; revolutionary, 153, 154. See also anarchism; Flores Magón, Ricardo anticapitalism, 46, 47, 167 appropriation, xv, 59, 120, 154 Arrested Development, 189 “Around the Way Girl,” 188 Asians, 16 “Assassination,” 101 assimilation, 10, 14, 22, 105, 108, 191, 207; linguistic, 124 Aztec, 59. See also Mexica Aztlán, 34, 61–62, 149 “Aztlán is the Truth,” 149 Aztlán journal, 61

n

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B “Baddest Muthafucka, The,” 187 Bad Nigga, 184 barrio, postindustrial, 27 barrioization, 32, 42, 47, 126, 137–39, 249 barriology, 30, 32, 122–25, 249 b-boy, 17 beauty standards, 233, 234 “Be Free,” 257 “Beso Peligroso,” 232 Bigger Thomas, 184 “Big Payback, The,” 190 biocentrism, 93 Bishop G., 236 bitch, 228, 229 “Bitch is a Bitch, A,” 228 biting, in hip-hop, 267 (n. 5) “Black Hole,” 140 “Bling, Bling,” 181 body, 39 Body Count, 235, 236 boom-boom bap rhythm, 6, 44, 85, 95, 101, 102, 103, 241 “Breathe,” 169 “Brown Baby Girl,” 72 Brownside, 185, 186 “Brujería,” 232 Bush, George H.W., 47, 113, 114 “By the Time I Get to Arizona,” 247

C “Café,” 3, 4 calacas, 64 capitalism, 117, 127, 129, 167; ethics, 167, 168; and identity, 215; and masculinity, 176, 177; values of, 153. See also anticapitalism Caribbean, 17 Carnival, 168 cars, 34, 45, 87, 112, 147, 160, 168, 169, 180, 181, 182, 188, 206, 211 Cash, Johnny, 41 Casta, 19 Catholicism, 41 chavala, 51, 84, 116. See also joto; leva Cheney, Dick, 133 Chican@, 263 (n.)

Chican@ Hip Hop Nation, xii, xiii, 100, 192; and anarchist economics, 256; and anarchist thought, 250; and cross-racial solidarity, 253; and language, 239; liberatory potential of, xvii; and loco/ psycho, 36; machismo of, 51, 52, 255; and marijuana, 49; and place-based identity, 33; and race, 252; as speech community, 13, 14; and spirituality, 41, 42; and stereotypes, 51, 52, 255; as voice of oppressed, 28; and youth movements, xvi Chican@ Hip Hop Nation Language (ChHHNL), 52, 53 Chicanismo, ix, 19 Chicano Movement, vii, viii, 58, 60, 62, 84 Chilam Balam, 57–78 passim Chingo Bling, 111 chingón, 50, 51. See also hypermasculinity; machismo Chivo, 95 Chuck D, 248 Cihuatl Ce, 76, 79 Cihuatl Tonalli, 76 class, 133–35, 148; analysis of, 111; and dignified labor, 134; comprador, 122, 251; consciousness, 120, 177, 186, 251, 252; exploitation, 121, 134, 154 Clear Channel, 203, 216 cocaine, 113. See also crack “COINTELPRO,” 127 colonialism, xiii, 4, 21, 36, 59, 60, 89, 102, 119, 120–22, 135, 184, 196, 235, 238, 242–44; definition of, 121; and violence, 120, 137, 138, 142 “Conferencia,” 101 Con Safos magazine, 122, 123 conscientizacíon, 37, 130, 151, 152 consciousness: class, 120, 251, 252; Mexica, 67; oppositional, 78; working-class, 177 conspicuous consumption, 168, 169, 180, 181, 206, 211, 215, 224, 231 consumer ethic, 216 “cool pose,” 38 corn, 69, 93 corridos, 72, 161, 172, 184 crack, 50, 130, 182, 183

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Index

criminalization, 36, 47, 113, 148; of black men, 178; of Chicanos, 137, 138, 139, 153 Crow, 127. See also Sick Symphonies Crucial Conflict, 183 cultural retentions, 238 culture industries, 195 Cynic, 129. See also Sick Symphonies Cypress Hill, 120, 126, 268 (n. 6)

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D Daddy Yankee, 204, 214 Dead Silence Records, 157 “Dear Mr. President,” 115 decolonialism, 249 decolonizing the mind, 11, 58, 67, 124, 249, 256 Delinquent Habits, 161, 162, 172, 189 día de los muertos, 44, 64, 101, 157 diaspora, 117; African, 196, 230; Mexican, 86 differential association, 225 dignity, 23, 34, 39, 93, 102, 103, 134, 141, 164, 169 DJ, 17 DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, 188 “Do My Thing,” 184, 185 Don Omar, 195, 196 “Do or Die,” 186 “Double Life,” 40 drugs, 113, 130, 182–85; dealing, 182, 183, 190, 225, 237. See also crack; marijuana

E education, 104–8; capitalist, 22;1 Eurocentric, 221; tracking, 105–7 “El Principio,” 106 El Vuh, 70, 73–77 “Enemy of the State,” 128 “Esta Copa,” 108 ethnicity: Latin@, 197; political, 198; symbolic, 207 Explicit Ink Designs, 98

F “F Tha Police,” 235, 246 “Fact or Fiction,” 47 fathers, 98, 99, 107, 169 FBI, 127, 128–29

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Felipe Cuauhtli, 57–78 passim familia (family), xv, 45, 83, 84, 97–100, 116, 117; as patriarchal, 99 “5th of May,” 166 Fifth Sun, 4, 61, 70 50 Cent, 252 Flores Magón, Ricardo, 120, 130, 264 (nn. 3, 4) Flor y canto, 27 “For Women,” 230 “Four Women,” 228–30 fratricide, 141–43 freedom dreams, 59–60, 103, 137, 245, 247–57 “Fuego,” 232

G gang, 185, 186, 190; being a member of a, 52 “Gasolina,” 214 Gatewood, Tara, 64 “Get Money,” 182 “Get Up, Stand Up,” 253 Global Hip Hop Nation, xiv, 18 globalization, 158, 196, 200, 247 Glory, 213, 214 “God Forgives,” 41, 42 Gonzalez, “Corky,” 57 “Gotta Eat,” 237 “Gracias al Creador,” 44 Grandmaster Flash, 65, 77; and Furious Five, 248 Grandmaster Theodore, 77 gringo, 48–49 griots, 30, 239 Guerrero, Lalo, vii, viii guerrillas, 242, 243 guerrilleras, 72–77 Guevara, Che, 128

H “Hay,” 183 “Hecho en Mexico,” 88 “Hey Papi,” 181, 182 “High Till I Die,” 183 Hill, Lauryn, 189 hip-hop, underground, 66 Hip-Hop-Based Education (HHBE), 222, 223–24

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Hip Hop Nation, 69, 91, 94, 163 Hip Hop Nation Language (HHNL), xi, 13, 15, 28, 31, 125 homosexuality, 42, 116, 189 Hot Boys, 181 “How I Could Just Kill a Man,” 126 Hunt, DeDe, 229 hurban, 196, 203–8, 215 Hurricane G., 232 hypermasculinity, 51, 52, 72, 84, 137, 163, 173, 176, 177, 191, 205, 234 hypersexuality, 173, 174

interaction, 6–7; black-Asian, 16; blackMexican, 17–23 “Interrogated Cuz I’m Brown,” 190, 191 Ivy Queen, 213, 214

J Jay-Z, 181, 182 Jehuniko, 44–45 Jesus Christ, 41, 77 Jezebel, 229 joto, 84, 116. See also chavala; leva joy, 102, 103 Junior Mafia, 182

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I “I Am Not My Hair,” 233, 234 Ice T, 235, 236 identity: black, 16, 17; and capitalism, 215; Chicano, 61; immigrant, xv, 81, 116; indigenous, xv, 4; and land, 31; and language, 207, 208; Latino, ix, xvi, 206; loco, 120; male, 170, 177; Mexica, xv; Mexican, ix, 3, 157; Mexican national, xv, 5, 52, 81–84, 117; multi-tiered, 35; pan-ethnic, 197, 198, 211; people of color, 199, 243; resistant, 124, 153; situational, 197; and teen development, 204; working-class, 178 ideology, 60, 120–22 “I Drink, She Smokes,” 167, 170 “If I Ruled the World,” 188, 189 “If it Happened to You,” 135, 153 “I Like Big Butts,” 233 Illuminati, 47, 130, 131; song by Krazy Race, 47, 153 immigrants, 4, 81–119 passim, 254; education of, 104–8; health care of, 109; and labor, 108–10; undocumented, 106–8, 158; youth, 104–6 Immortal Technique, 241–47 imperialism, 132, 133. See also colonialism India.Arie, 233, 234 “Infinite,” 76 Indian Ocean Region, 16 indigeneity, 44, 48–49, 57, 62; culture, 68; identity, 44, 68 in lak ech, 43 “Insane in the Brain,” 120, 126

K Kemo the Blaxican: and black-Mexican interaction, 241; and dignity, 164, 172; and marijuana, 167; and masculinity, 158, 161,163–69, 172–74; and mestizaje, 161–63; and race, 157, 161, 173, 252; and resistance, 166; and spirituality, 169; and women, 170–73, 230 Kiawitl, 75, 79. See also Lady Binx Kid Frost, 48, 82, 161 “Kind of Stories,” 168 K’Naan, 30 Knightowl, 181, 187 knowledge, situated, 35 “Know Thyself,” 231 Krazy Race, 44, 47, 142–44, 253 Kinto Sol, 84–100, 253 KRS-One, 29

L La Bruja, 231 Lady Binx, 75, 79 “La Flor,” 170, 224 La Kalle, 195, 197, 205, 206, 215 language: assimilation, 14; black use of, 28, 29, 31, 125; caló, 51, 123; Chicano English, 7, 12– 14; Chinglish, 112, 113; and codeswitching, 13, 114, 161, 162; and colonialism, 11, 12; and discrimination, 11; ebonics, 14, 51, 125; and identity, 31, 207, 208; and linguistic liberation, 16; phonology, 13; and resistance, 11, 12, 238; Spanglish, 13;

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Index

Standard American English, 10, 11, 14, 16, 123, 125; street, 32; use, 7–10, 14 “La Prueba,” 36–40, 123, 124 “La Raza,” 48 la raza cósmica, 19–21, 159, 195, 270 (n. 1, chap. 8) “La Receta,” 161, 162 “La Sangre Nunca Muere,” 97, 98 la vida loca, 189, 190 “Last Days,” 169 Latinidad, 197–200, 206–17 passim; and Africanness, 212; urban, 195 Latinization, 201 Latin lover, 214 “Left Coast Latino,” 162, 166 leva, 84, 116. See also chavala; joto liberation mythology, xv, 42, 58, 59–60, 78, 255; of Kemo the Blaxican, 257 Lighter Shade of Brown, A, 190, 191 Lil Kim, 182, 231 Lil Rob, 182–90 passim “Little Rain, A,” 165 “Little Weapon,” 236 LL Cool J, 188, 233 loco/psycho, 36–40, 120, 126 logos, 27, 39, 123 Los Marijuanos, 98 Los Nativos, xv, 57–72, 77–78 “Los que Luchamos,” 94 “Lo Verdadero,” 102 lowriding, 23, 77, 87, 88, 159, 162, 241, 265 (n. 14) Lupe Fiasco, 236

M machismo, 84, 90, 91, 163, 164–67, 170, 172–74, 179. See also hypermasculinity; sexism “made in Mexico,” 86, 88 Malcolm X, 142 male gaze, 72, 73, 170, 187, 188, 233, 234 mariachi, 20, 95, 102, 108 marijuana, 34, 49, 103, 167, 168, 182–85; communal nature of, 49 Marley, Bob, 43, 46, 128, 266 (n. 11) Martin, Ricky, 189 Marxism, xiv, 127, 153, 154, 222, 266 (n.

n

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9); and anarchism, 263–64 (n. 2); anarchist critique of, 256, 264 (n. 2), 268 (n. 15); against capitalism, 225; and class, 133; and class consciousness, 252; against exploitation, 134; and primitive accumulation, 136 masculinity, xvi, 5, 99, 100, 103, 160, 176, 190; alternative, 172, 189, 192; and capitalism, 176, 177; hegemonic, xvi, 6, 160–92 passim, 227; patriarchal, 178; and power, 177, 180. See also hypermasculinity; machismo “matrix of domination,” 15 Mayans, 4, 5, 13, 43, 58, 60, 66, 67, 68–69, 70, 77–78, 86, 147, 150, 267 (n. 11). See also indigeneity media, consolidation of, 121 Medusa, 231 Memphis Bleek, 181, 182 men: chavala/leva/mamón, 51; ideal, 175, 176; ideal Mexican, 163; in reggaetón, 214 Mesoamericans, xiv, 31, 173, 272 (n. 9) Mesoamerican thought, 90–92 “Message, The,” 248 mestizaje, xii, 8, 22, 123, 124, 159, 162, 172, 173, 199, 250; continuous, 157; new millennial, xii, 9, 18, 78, 157, 159–61, 245 Mexica, 57–59 Mexica Movement, 58, 62 Mexican@ Hip Hop Nation Language, 52, 53 Mexicanidad, 85, 93, 100, 107–8, 160, 250 Mexiclan, 100–3 Mexico, Africans in, 19–21 militarism, 46 “Missmewithat,” 41, 42 “Mr. Wendel,” 189 mitakuye oyasin, 91–92, 267 (n. 11). See also “all our relations” mojado, 106–8 mothers, 74, 75, 76, 77, 99, 172 Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán (MEChA), 60–61 music: African, 77, 121, 237; and anti-violence, 237; and anti-war, vii; banda, 87, 102, 103; Blues, 85, 166; Caribbean, 211, 212; and change, viii; crunk, 241; funk, 100, 102; and identity, 209, 210; mariachi, 20, 95, 102,

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108; Mexican regional, 111, 209, 212; neoindigenist, 61; norteño, 87, 103; protest, viii, 235, 236 myth, 59. See also liberation mythology

N Nahuatl, 71 Nas, 188, 189 nationalism, 22, 24; Chicano, 149; cultural, 48, 82–84, 144, 250; Mexican, 97, 117 “Native Sisters,” 73, 74 “Naughty Boy,” 182, 188 neo-indigenism, 58, 64, 67 neoliberalism, 131, 157, 158, 247, 248, 256 Nikki Minaj, 231 nommo, 28 North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), 5, 114, 121 “Note the Crowd,” 170 Notorious B.I.G., 186, 187 “#1 Target,” 137, 138 N.W.A., 22, 229, 235, 236 nyama, 30

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O Obama, Barack, 47 “Oh What a Night,” 190 Olmec, 63 Ometeotl, 63, 91 “One More Chance,” 186, 187 organic intellectuals, xiv, 24 orgullo, 84, 86, 96, 111. See also pride “Oye Como Va,” 270 (n. 3, chap. 8)

pedagogy of the erotic, xvii, 222, 226–34 pinto, 30, 36; poet, 37 placa, 34, 38 place, 30, 31; sense of, 15 “Please Dr. Green,” 49, 50 plutocracy, 130–31 police, 32, 33, 190, 191; abuse, 235, 236 politics: gender, 58; Mexican American youth, xii polyculturalism, xii, 8, 16–23, 82, 123–25, 232, 237, 248, 249 Pony Boy, 98 Popol Vuh, 27, 67 pornography, 226–30 Posada, José Guadalupe, 64 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 38, 265 (n. 6) power: financial, 180, 181; physical, 184; sexual, 186–88 pride, 97, 238; ethnic, 207–11, 215; Mexican, 88–89 prison, 225, 226 private property, 134, 154 Psycho Realm, xv, 38, 43, 126–45 passim, 190, 207 Public Enemy, 247, 248 Puerto Ricans, 207

Q Queer Aztlán, 83, 84 Quinto Sol Publications, 60 Quran, 27

R P pachuco, 32 “Palace of Exile,” 225, 226 patriarchy, 15, 213; and capitalism, 117; and family, 84; and Kemo the Blaxican, 165; and male privilege, 254, 255; and Mexica hiphop, 72; and women, 191, 232; and women’s images, 6, 103 Payback García, 85, 86, 94 pedagogy, xvii; engaged, 223; hip-hop, 221–45 passim; social justice, xvii, 221, 222. See also education; Hip-Hop-Based Education

race, 48, 135, 136, 160; black-Mexican, relations, 239–41; and blood, 207; superiority, 48 racism, 96, 100, 111–12, 116, 122, 174; antiblack, 213 rap: corporate, 66, 147, 226, 230, 238; gangsta, 234, 252 rasquachismo, 33, 114, 200, 268 (n. 7, chap. 4) Rastafarianism, 43, 44, 45 Raúl and Mexia, 248 raza, 48, 87 “Raza es Raza,” 87

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

Index

Reagan, Ronald, 247 “Real Spitt,” 100 “Reason to Fight,” 130, 132 rebellion, vii reggae, 43 reggaetón, xvi, 195–217 passim, 232 “Reggaetón Latino,” 195 religion: Aztec, 61; Catholic, 76; Christian, 91. See also spirituality representin’, 69 resistance, 4, 93–97, 101, 122, 127, 128, 184, 191–93, 196, 236, 249; communication, 29, 30 revolution, vii, 243 Rhymesayers Entertainment, 64–66 “Ridin’ (remix),” 112 “Ruido,” 162, 165

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

S Saint Desmus, 41 Salinas, Raul, 41 santería, 232 sexism, xiii sick, 120. See also loco/psycho “Sick Dogs,” 38 Sick Jacken, 43 Sickside, 126 Sick Symphonies, 126–45 passim. See also Cynic; Crow Simone, Nina, 228, 230 Sir Mix-a-Lot, 233 Sixth Sun, 70 Skribe, 95 slavery, 135, 136 snitchin’, 42 social bandit, 39, 46, 71, 100, 102, 103, 239–40, 267 (n. 14) soldiers/soldados, 46, 124, 125; Sickside, 128. See also warrior solidarity, 143, 248; anti-colonial, 243; class, 159; cross-racial, 143 “Somos Mexicanos,” 89 “Soy Chingón,” 185 Spanglish, 199, 200 spirituality, 40–46, 91, 92, 169; Maya, 69. See also religion

n

293

“Station Thirteen,” 189 Stomper, 149, 150 street hop, xv, xvi, 120, 153 streets, 31–36, 205, 206, 215, 225 “Streets Up,” 142–44 “Summertime,” 188

T Talib Kweli and Hi-Tech, 230 tattoos/tats/tatuajes, 38, 39, 40 “Tear Down That Wall,” 248 Tecpatl, 77 temporary autonomous zones, 270 (n. 6) “That’s When She Died,” 151–53 Thief Sicario, xv, 41, 42, 123, 124, 146–49 third root, 18, 212 “Third World, The,” 242, 243 Third Worldism, 242–44 thugs/thugees, 239 “T.I.E.R.R.A.,” 86 “Times We’re Living in,” 133 tlamatinimes, 29, 30 “Todos Somos Arizona,” 248 Tolteka, 67, 70–73 Tonantzin, 63, 76–77 “to school,” 265 (n. 11) traditional ecological knowledge (TEK), 92, 93 Trafek, 147 transnationalism, xiv, 9

U ubuntu, 43 “Ultimo Suspiro,” 94 “Un Compa,” 87 United States, critique of, 149–53 Univision, 204–6, 211, 215

V Vasconcelos, Josè, 21 violence, 71, 72, 96, 233, 234; against women, 171; brown-on-brown, 190; colonial, 120, 135, 137, 138–42; fratricide, 141–43, 186; and guns, 183, 184, 190, 236, 237, 243; imperial, 132, 133; interpersonal, 184; reactionary, 142; revolutionary, 138, 142; state, 140, 190; war, 234

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,

294

n

Index

Virgen de Guadalupe, 77, 89 “Vivir o Morir,” 101, 102

Wu Tang Clan, 40

X W

Y “Ya Estuvo Amor,” 73 “Yo Soy Joaquin,” 57 “You Know,” 166, 167, 170, 171

Z Zapata, Emiliano, 94 Zapatistas, 5 Zarate, Juan, 3, 4, 35 Zitlali Star Acosta, 73 zoot: culture, 22, 23, 34, 159, 160, 177, 241, 269 (n. 1); suits, 17, 160, 269 (n. 1)

Copyright © 2013. Michigan State University Press. All rights reserved.

wage slavery, 134 warrior, 71, 72, 75, 76, 94, 165; Aztec, 59; class, 133–35. See also soldiers/soldados, social bandit “We Run This,” 76 West, Kanye, 224 “West Coast Party,” 181 wetback, 106–8 “Who is Sara Baartman?” 229 Wolof, 238 women, 5, 6, 170–72; as caregivers, 173; in reggaetón, 214; representation of, 227; value of, 72. See also mothers “word,” 28

Xicano, 266 (n. 5) xippi, 28, 236

McFarland, Pancho. The Chican@ Hip Hop Nation : Politics of a New Millennial Mestizaje, Michigan State University Press,