Hip hop has a vagina. - Brown University

CHANGING THE RHYTHM. 

Welcome to the African Sun! The African Sun provides a voice for and 

about the Black community at Brown University. The African Sun aims 

to serve the Black community by addressing topics relevant to the 

Black experience and exploring issues from the “Black perspective.” 

Because mainstream media often ignores or discredits the complex, 

diverse views of our community the African Sun serves as an alternative 

public space for opinions, news, and creative expression. In recognition 

of Black people’s shared experiences and the immense strength of a 

community, the African Sun provides up-to-date information on national 

and local issues that affect us as Black people. In honor of the power of 

literature to bind communities, we maintain high standards of literature 

and invite all people to submit literature of any kind: poems, short stories, 

lyrics. All the ideas and questions published in the African Sun will 

be a source of mobilization for the Black community towards action 

when relevant. Our greatest hope is that the African Sun will promote 

respectful, dynamic campus dialogue about issues affecting Black communities. 

We strongly encourage all members of the Brown community 

to read, react, and contribute. 

The theme of this issue is CHANGING THE RHYTHM because we are 

in a dynamic moment where all beats are changing. This is the moment 

of the first Black president of the United States. A moment, also, where 

in our Brown community we can celebrate the fortieth anniversary of 

the 1968 walkout of Black students who demanded greater university 

participation in Black admittance and Black achievement. And change 

is forming and flowing in our student community with the revival of 

OUAP, our Black student union, the creation of the Black Liberation 

Project, and the reclaiming of Black spaces. We have been changing the 

rhythm in all these moments. Changing through time, changing through 

beats and rhyme, changing in silence. Listen to our voices... 

Peace. 

African Sun 

2

List of Contributors 

Basma Samira 

Renata Sago 

Seung Hwa Baek 

Megan A. Smith 

Elmo Terry Morgan 

Courtney Smith 

Marlaina H. Martin 

Kristin Jordan 

Emily Taylor 

Yaa Sarpong 

Max Clermont 

Paula Kaufman 

Ama Ata Aidoo 

Mark Brown 

Elvis Alves 

Cristina Rodrigues 

Lydia Sharlow 

Michael Gray 

Ana Lyman 

Patrick Sylvain 

David Elion 

Cover Art by Lydia Sharlow 

3

Hip hop has a vagina. 

4 

(A response to Yung Mike’s statement that women have no place in hip hop.) 

Renata Sago 

Hip hop culture is as saturated with female presence as your local hair salon on Easter 

Sunday. And to my quasi emcees that think otherwise, may your albums go aluminum 

instead of platinum. Then it’ll match that arcade machine jewelry you rock. It’s hard 

enough for my ears to be assaulted by unoriginal hooks, elementary lyrics, and Garage 

Band beats. For my eyes to be damn near blinded by pussy-poppin-weave-wearin-stilettostridin 

ladies in music videos. And then to lose my voice listing the reasons why women 

have maintained the market for hip hop–all the while making sure my hair doesn’t sweat 

out. Just call me an honorary member of Crime MOB because I stay knuckin and buckin. 

But come on now. Since when did I have to be so reactionary, and when did hip hop 

lose its purpose? When did sexism become so stylish, and when did we embrace it? Yung 

Mike may as well have slapped me in the face with a microphone than have denied 

women a role in hip hop. We put the hip—hell, the lips, breasts, money, meaning and 

everything else —in hip hop. And we get no love. Just a bad rap and a tell-all book from 

Superhead. Damn. Hip hop is dying, and it’s time for a resurrection—of truth, substance 

and recognition. And the truth is, hip hop has a vagina. 

Women are the invisible men of hip hop culture. Their presence is ever true, but neither 

valued nor recognized adequately—not even by the most dynamic shakers and movers 

of the industry. And the women who are recognized are either hypermasculinized (Missy 

Elliott before the weight loss), hypersexualized (any typical video ho), underrated (any 

female lyricist), or crazy (Lauryn Hill). There is no market for women in hip hop; rather, it’s a 

series of pigeonholes. Find a space. Keep the space. Get a little shine. Take the money, 

and run. 

You don’t need MTV, BET, a map or a pair of bi-focals to see that women are as ubiquitous 

as a ringmaster hat and stunna shades in a T-Pain video. If they are not adorning ugly 

ass rappers in music videos, singing the hooks on their songs, co-writing and producing 

their tracks, designing their clothing labels, interviewing them, they’re purchasing music. 

They’re starting their fan clubs. They’re buying their concert tickets. They’re catapulting 

rappers’ careers. So thank a bitch, Yung Mike. 

If anything, women and hip hop have a kind of Jay-Z-Beyoncé-“Upgrade U”esque 

relationship. It is reminiscent of that part of the video when Jay Z is rapping and B is 

sashaying around him in the background. Even though B is like Jay’s half nude Barbie doll, 

she is his rock, as well. There is an implied understanding that neither can exist without 

the other. It is a partnership. They complement each other (--yes! it’s something about B’s 

natural beauty and Jay’s authentic swag!). But aside from this, we don’t see the positive 

representations. We don’t see clothed representations. Intellectual representations. Nonsexual 

representations. And if we do, it’s played out. It doesn’t peak our interest. Sure, 

there’s businesswoman Kimora Lee Simmons who boasts a million dollar hip hop clothing 

company. But there’s also model Kimora Lee Simmons who boasts topless pictures in 

premier magazines as advertisements for her company. Combat sexism with sex? Hmmm. 

Well what about when sex sells? Does the money overshadow the sexism? Sexy questions. 

Sexist answers. Double standards.

It’s these ill informed understandings that 

become impressed in the minds of young 

women who breathe in mainstream hip hop 

images like air. Fair enough, the impact of hip 

hop culture on women’s psyche is as reciprocal 

as women’s on the industry. There’s a huge 

difference between what we see on the screen 

and what goes on behind the scenes, and it 

takes cultural critics like Tricia Rose and Scott 

Poulson-Bryant to inform us of that gap. But for 

the eight year old girl who is not precocious 

enough to engage in such reading, there is 

little hope. She sees booties flapping, bottles 

popping, blunts blazing and music booming. 

She doesn’t see a director telling the woman 

to jiggle a little more; to smile a little harder and 

show a little more skin. And as obvious as these 

music videos should be that it’s entertainment, 

it is not to her. Hell, it’s not even that obvious to 

me. There is something about us as a society 

these days where we aren’t able to distinguish 

reality from fantasy. But I ain’t even gonna lie. 

There have been times when I have danced in 

the mirror naked, aspiring to be a video vixen 

and have the eyes of millions on me. But where 

does that come from? There is a disconnection 

between the value of women and their 

impact on culture. There is an even greater 

disconnection between the value women 

place on themselves. Women allow themselves 

to be objectified. And we—women—support it 

by purchasing the music. I know we’re all trying 

to survive out here, but there must be a point 

when integrity overshadows a $5000 check for 

an appearance in Weezy’s video. Maybe after 

Obama gets us out of this recession… 

5

6 

Holy 

Prayer 

Seung Hwa Baek 

calm myself down put some anesthetic in 

my vain friendship love such things in my 

vein good food workout protein sweat 

American dream in my vain stop thinking 

stop wondering stop stop the war in my 

brain 

smoke some lucky strike watch some 

American media i didn’t capitalize 

America— Word did it always does it 

always fucking does the same thing 

because it’s made in America 

smoke some lucky strike watch some 

rap video I’m a demasculinized nerdy 

foreigner my 

sarcasm must be a turn-off and American 

male dominant society tells me to go fuck 

go fuck and if I do fuck you’re gonna 

blame rap music ah this rap music’s gotten 

this 

foreigner dude crazy horny ah 

calm myself down put some anesthetic in 

my vain friendship love such things in my 

vein 

spitting poetry isn’t gonna do anything to 

change the way you view the world 

disingenuously appreciative audience 

disingenuously appreciative parents 

girlfriend 

boyfriend and 

spitting nonsense and not even poetic 

lines and getting applause for it 

kills 

me 

what who the fuck is me? me what the 

fuck do I do? I study I spit I shit I shallow I 

shadow I sex I sleep I do what you tell me 

to do I am what you tell me I am I am I 

am 

what you think I am I 

emotionally unstable volatile annoyed yes 

is that me? no

content-less poem like this must be annoying to 

you but that’s okay because you annoyed me 

first 

me first 

me first 

I’ve fully become American I say me first 

calm myself down put some anesthetic in my 

vain friendship love such things in my vein 

ME FIRST no anesthetic please snort some coke 

drink some godfather 

Whiskey alcohol hate love emotions as such 

Cigarette caffeine thank god for those drugs me 

jittery very much me first me first 

I go to church to thank the same god that 

obama thanked 

God…god…twelve disciples must have loved 

him… 

If I had twelve people truthfully loving me I 

would’ve fucking become Gandhi myself 

too 

Yes 

Yes 

Don’t you just love spoken word? 

Don’t you just love poetry? 

The more foreign exotic and not fluent you are 

the more appreciated you are appreciate me till 

you die if I am the world as the daoists say if I die 

you all die if you all die I die you and I must be 

The same species. Hi 

7

Herma Winegarten 

8 

One morning Herma Winegarten woke up deformed. She didn’t realize it at first because the day 

started normal. Routine. Like clockwork. The blinds that hung in the bedroom cut the beam of sunshine 

that came through the window. Bold, bright lines of shine warmed her skin. 

Slowly she turned over in the bed to face her man. Her long fingers traced his face circling around his 

almond shaped eyes, down his aquiline nose, through the swirls in his ear, and between his thin lips. 

Herma laughed to herself. Imagine her ending up with this light, bright man –with his gray eyes and 

wavy hair. Imagine. Herma admitted to herself that they must look strange together. A dark black 

woman with long thick black hair courtesy of the Koreans on Richmond and this white looking black 

man. But they worked. And after awhile she wasn’t as conscious of how they appeared to others. 

Lost in her thoughts, it took Herma awhile to notice his lips encasing her finger sucking the blood to the 

very tip. 

“You bad” 

Megan A. Smith 

He laughed a deep grunting sound with subtle changes in pitch. His laugh reminded her of the cello 

so much so that the first time she heard his laugh she imagined playing the cello, fiercely, furiously and 

impassioned. 

In unison as if reading each other’s mind, they moved into a hug. Thigh against thigh. Stomachs 

touching. Arms over back. Forehead against forehead 

. 

“I’ll miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you, too.” 

“When are you coming back?” 

“Two days. 

“I’ll miss you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

He smiled at her, and then slowly detangled himself from her. Hurriedly he pushed on his pants and 

shoes. And while running around Herma’s small apartment gathering his things, he spoke excitedly 

about what this trip to Chicago would do for his career. People will know his work. Feel his work. 

“Especially the piece I did of you baby. That one will really get them talking.” 

Herma hated that painting. No wait. She didn’t hate it. Just hated that everyone would see it. Her 

exposed and vulnerable to the designs of his mind and the will of his paintbrush. 

“Do you have to show that one?” 

“Yea, baby. You know its my best one…my strongest. You see how you inspire me?” He laughed. That 

deep laugh. And she turned over on her stomach. 

With her eyes closed and her head facedown against the pillow, Herma refused to watch him leave. 

She just listened. The water running over his toothbrush. The woosh of clothes being stuffed into a bag.

The smacking of his lips against her shoulder blades as he left two kisses on her back. 

“Bye, baby I’ll be back.” 

And without waiting for a reply, he was gone. 

Herma hated to think of herself as a woman who couldn’t be without her man for a couple of days. She 

turned over and stared at the white ceiling. The tiny cracks moved before her eyes forming shapes and 

designs. They played with Herma’s mind. Hurriedly she closed her eyes in hopes of protecting her from 

the ceiling’s dizzying effect. 

There were these times when Herma’s mind seemed to be moving so fast that she could literally feel her 

spirit shaking. It was at these times that Herma knew that her spirit was privileged. That everything about 

her from her flaws to her talents were comprised within this inner part of herself –her soul. The importance 

of her soul made her body secondary. Merely an encasing. Perhaps even a prison. Or a tomb. 

Immediately her mind fought against the idea that her body was a tomb. A tomb. That would mean it 

enclosed something dead. Lifeless. 

Herma tried to reject this idea, but as she lay in bed she felt herself sinking into some sort of abyss in which 

even with eyes closed the darkness that lay beneath her lids seemed impenetrable. Damning. 

Her dead soul. How did she not notice? Not notice in time to save it…save herself. Not even notice to 

give it the proper burial. 

Herma opened her black eyes which were alit with the need to commemorate what had long been 

gone. Running from her bed, she left her bedroom toward the wall that had been abused with the tools 

of his art. 

The first time he had painted her it had been just after they had had sex. He’d gotten up from the bed 

to retrieve his tool box…his tools. His paints. At first, she laughed at the corniness of the situation. This man 

was actually painting her. Yellows and Pinks. Greens and Blues. He said, “You’re my best canvas. My new 

muse.” And again she laughed. 

But as his paintbrush circled around her nipples…. 

Pink on top Pink. 

One shade god given – the other man made 

…she couldn’t help but cry. 

When he noticed her tears, he stopped painting her. And laying back he pulled her towards him encasing 

her between his legs and arms. He hoped that his warmth would dry her tears. 

Later that night, as she lay asleep dreaming strange things…bodies without heads. Crying children. 

Burning candles. He sat in front of a blank wall in her apartment and painted a picture. 

A black woman –legs spread and stretched. Hair big and full. Skin deep and black. 

He painted a black woman deformed. 

Where there should have been nipples there was blood. Where there should have been a vagina –folded, 

hairy, and pink…there was a hole. Black and endless. 

So, as Herma raced from her bed to stand in front of this mural, she recognized a woman…absent of 

dreams, absent of thought, absent of soul… 

And she lay the knife against her nipples and let them bleed. 

Herma Winegarten woke up deformed. Missing the one thing that was supposed to be eternal. A 

deformation which she commemorated with the goriness of pleasure pain. 

9

Pretty 

10 

a reminiscing 

Elmo Terry-Morgan 

Boy

Pretty Boy be sittin on bar stool not even knowin him be priddy. 

AV’RAGE MAN be lookin at Pretty Boy n LIKE what him see! But Av’rage Man make NO 

move! Him stay in corner suckin on Rollin Rock. Him be makin ass-sessment: Av’rage Man 

leaf through him mental file n come up wid label for Pretty Boy; him JUST know he KNOW 

him RIGHT bout wavy-haired-honey-brown Pretty Boy. 

Pretty Boy payin rent on bar stool, blowin smoke signals, waitin-HOPIN-for-hit, wagons uv 

love n lust t’circle, but Av’rage Man don’t Stop in Name of Love. Him just Walk on By. 

Av’rage Man walk FAST, him breeze spin Pretty Boy round on bar stool. Him slap neon label 

all over Pretty Boy face: “Pretty Boy: DON’T TOUCH! Him THINK him 2 good f’Av’rage 

Man.” 

Pretty Boy want to Reach Out n Touch, Somebody’s Hand, but him 2-2 weary. Him 2 tired 

2 convince Av’rage Man that him not what he think he am. Pretty Boy sing that song so 

many times it certified golden oldie. He wonder what him do, what him say what make 

Av’rage Man skirt by him like plague. Maybe Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy on bad night 

when Igor Man be UP in Pretty Boy face. 

Igor Man be UNqualified ooo-glee. Him be ooo-glee from conception. Igor Man chiseled 

handsome in no classical form. Beheld beautiful in no man’s eye. Be real aggravatin-Got 

no sane conversation-No discrimination. Him E.O.P. Cassanova-Be in ev’ry man face. Igor 

Man got mama what take fertility pills-Come from big fam’ly: Got uga-mug bruthas in 

ev’ry state-united. Cannot be insulted! Pretty Boy piss in Igor Man ear n him think it Colt 

45. 

YES! Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy on baaad night when Igor Man pluck Pretty Boy HIM last 

nerve!: 

Pretty Boy splash good Jacky D in Igor Man one good eye. 

Plug him gappy brown toofuhsizis wid stale popcorn. 

Pinch Igor Man on hump n send him back to Quasimoto tower. 

Maybe that why Av’rage Man think Pretty Boy a mean Narci-sissy-us. 

Pretty Boy got him luck real bad n no good timin. Av’rage Man still be in corner ass-sessin n 

slurpin on Rollin Rock when Freak Man glue hisself to Pretty Boy butt. Why him do DAT!? 

Freak Man be snap-CRACKle-POP!-coke-no-Pepsi-widda-Tequilla-back. Him be wantin 

Pretty Boy real bad. Him be wantin trinket fuh sale. Him got ass, cash n carry small bidnis. 

Got big habit n heavy wife: Him got white Columbian mail order bride C.O.D. Freak Man 

be real pissed when Pretty Boy turn him shoulder more froze than freshly sniffed snow. Him 

want Pretty Boy to guard him coffin while him sleep. Maybe that why Av’rage Man think 

Pretty Boy a cold hearted bitch! 

Av’rage Man should be CPA. Him done moh ass-sessin than IRS. Him saw Pretty Boy at 

Sunday tea dance when GWM be desp’rately seeking GBM for STMR (short term meaningless 

relationship). Him MASSA LOOKIN F’MANDINGO. 

GWM be real civilized liberal. Him give he full name n business card. Him got much plastic 

gold. Him buy Pretty Boy drinks all day. Av’rage Man jaws be Kunta Kinte tight! He just 

know him right bout PrettyBoyWhore. GWM look at Pretty Boy n just know him got mocachoca-latta-ya-ya. 

Pretty Boy look over him shoulder for help from Av’rage Man, search 

him eye - plea for Av’rage Man to save him from auction block, but him done finish audit. 

11

12 

Av’rage turn red, black n green. Him exile Pretty Boy, dunk him in milk like oreo cookie. 

Pretty Boy turn back to GWM who bout ta swallow up Pretty Boy soul. GWM be tall, 

light n interested. Pretty Boy get mad wid Soul Brutha #86, stage him own boycott, him 

go blonde lavender; leave wid GWM. Maybe that why Av’rage Man think Pretty Boy 

a color-struck slut! 

Pretty Boy survive Mandingo-izin by GWM. Him fall back into bar, perch on stool. Him 

ass hurt. Him spine starta curve. Him balls dragging floor. Him mushroom-tip got chafe. 

But him Pretty Boy genes still holdin up; him still lookin good, but him done give up on 

Keepin Hope Alive. Av’rage Man see Pretty Boy reach for him armour to protect hisself 

from Luv in Midnight Hour n What-da-hell-did-I-do-mornin-aftuhs. Pretty Boy nurse on 

Jacky D wid Heineken chaser. Him might be lush, but him got standards. 

Time tick…tock….tick….tock….tick/tock/tick/tock/tick away. Pretty Boy pluckin 

gray hair outta him moustache. Him ass don’t stand up so high no moh. But him 

still Discoizing, Old-Schoolin’ to Hip-Hop beat. Folks call him SIR – Him look over him 

shoulder. Who dey talkin too? Den he see HIM!!!!!!! 

Before Pretty Boy can remembuh what year it am... Married Man ElectricSlide down 

aisle ... blind Pretty Boy wid him Colgate smile. 

Married Man not act like him happy-in-wedded-bliss wid pregnant Covergirl wife at 

home paintin white picket fence. Him wear charismatic shit cologne what hide orange 

blossom scent. Him speak muzak poem in Pretty Boy ear. Touch Pretty Boy on tremblin 

thigh, plant him moonlight kiss on mouth, tongue’im down to gut, while go-home-lastcall-lights 

be glarin. Him not care who see him lovey-dove Pretty Boy like proposal at 

SuperBowl. Married Man STALK Pretty Boy: Him come back night after night. Pretty Boy 

feel Married Man 2 good to be true. Him TOO Knight in Shiny Armor. Pretty Boy scared. 

Him not want to give in. Don’t want heart to crack n be served like rocks in Jacky D. 

But Married Man break down Pretty Boy, carry him off to castle in cloud. Pretty Boy 

say, “Fuckit!”. Him give in. Him Savin all Him Love for Part-Time Lover. Married Man 

make Pretty Boy LUV him. Pretty Boy tell Married Man him in love. Married Man tell 

Pretty Boy No Can Do, I Can’t Go for THAT! Pretty Boy feel convoy of Mack Truck run 

him over. Him emotional road-kill splattered all over evuh-place. Pretty Boy try to be 

sophistikit. Him bear up, shrug off hurt. Think him can play by Married Man Rule: Live 

in London Tower waitin for visit, waitin for second-hand kiss n left-over dick. But London 

Bridge done falldid down. Pretty Boy beat hisself up for bein asshole, try to walk away 

from Married Man. But Married Man block Pretty Boy way out, suck on him lip, lick him 

neck, squeeze him butt, break him own rule. Time TICK-TOCK-TICK away – Pretty Boy 

find MOH gray hair in him pubic hair. Him still stupid ass waitin f’midnight booty call. 

Married Man still got it goin-OWN! Him got new technology; Him got Viagra-Love. 

Him push-me pull-me selfish muthafucka. Pretty Boy run for tower window, scream for 

Lancelot, but him got no Rapunzel hair not even no cullid lady Korean weave. Him 

jump n PRAaa-AaYYyy!! Him go splat. Married Man moonwalk back down aisle to him 

til-death-do-us-part . It’s Cheapha to Keep Huh... n f’git the stupid faggit... 

Pretty Boy wake up under bar stool. Him chipped up like saw dust on floor. 

Av’rage Man be watchin-WATCHIN damnit!-watchin drama not so damn mellow. 

Him got confirmation: Pretty Boy stuff what flush down toilet. SWUSH/SWIRL/GURGLE/ 

Whish..... 

Pretty Boy drag hisself up, dust off dirt, rub off shoe prints. Look in him Jacky D, try to 

chase it wid tears, but him ducts all dried up. Him wonder what wrong: Is him breath 

not minty fresh? Him underarms not lemon scent? Him skin not lanolined? Him ass not 

tight enough? 

Perhaps him AM 2 priddy.

But Pretty Boy no run in Pretty Boy-Sugar Boy pack! Him oppressed minor minority. Him be 

lookin for protection in Bill of Rights. But him got no coalition lobby. Him got not even no 

Pretty Boy Association. Him be by hisself. Him see Av’rage Man in corner outta corner of 

eye. Hey There Lonely Boy... Don’t him see that Pretty Boy need him/that him need Pretty 

Boy? Av’rage Man be by hisself too, but him just got moh crowd round him. 

Pretty Boy get mad wid world! Him be in Gaydom DAT not be so gay. So him do what him 

spected to be: Get on auction block f’blonde GWM; Climb bell tower n give Igor Man 

charity nut; Take suicide dive wid Freak Man; Play Camille for Married Man. Pretty Boy look 

real hot n easy. Him suppose to be easy n hot. YES! BUT HIM HOT FOR AV’RAGE MAN! 

Pretty Boy ready to explode/Him dilirious/Him wild! Him so CRAZY him speak not even no 

good Anglish... 

Just as Pretty Boy ready to make date wid right hand, vaseline n amyLnitrate... 

Blue Moon come! 

Light’nin STRIKE! 

Av’rage Man got 4AM madness. 

Him got nuttin t’rock n roll but Rollin Rock. 

Him see Pretty Boy drainin down last o’him Dr. Feel Nuttin. Av’rage Man slink up on Pretty 

Boy. Take chance-mayB him jingle on tingaling. AFTUHALL, him ColdBloodedBitchUvaSlut; 

ainthim? Him be Av’rage Man Toilet. 

Pretty Boy caint believe him luck! 

Chorus o’ Angels sing “HAAa-lay-LU-yah!” 

Pretty Boy take Av’rage Man to him bed; Be a Lady in the Streets/You-Know-What in the 

Sheets! Hey-Hey! Hey-Hey! Black Men Loving Black Men is a Revolutionary Act! ... ain’t 

it? 

Pretty Boy give Av’rage Man good Tango-Tang-O!. “Mmmm-Hmmm, Baby like DAT!” Pretty 

Boy know genuine hoochie-coochie. Av’rage Man like peppa-salsa samba on him Hip- 

Hop-Cha-Cha-Cha. Him Talk in Tongues, Hollar in SpangLish, Shout Holy Ebonicals!: Oooo, 

bakabuchaka! Bailar bitch! Dance on the johnnie! Pop it popi! Who owns DIS shit!? Yes 

Jesus!... Av’rage Man make back-alley/sugar-field/bacco-road luv. Slobber on Pretty Boy 

mouth, go to ZZZzzz............. 

Pretty Boy linger after dance, do him own ass-sessin, soak up Av’rage man while him snore. 

Wonder why Av’rage Man not see him own beauty. Him blow soft whisper breath on Av’rage 

Man face, flicker-lick him strong neck, honey-suck him full lips, nestle on him chest, dream to 

da thump-thump-thumpin... Ahh...yes... 

Pretty Boy rise early; Gone Be All Dat Him Can Be! Kiss Av’rage Man on eyelid soft. Wake he 

up. Ask how he like him eggs. Pretty Boy in kitchen harmonizin wid Aretha, Day Dreamin n 

I’m Thinkin uv You; Puttin Mammy to shame! 

Pretty Boy must have brains fucked out: Think him hear Santa, Donder n Blitzen. 

Christmas did come early; ain’t it? 

Silver Bells-Silver Bells... SLAM! 

Jingle-Jangle-Jingle-Jangle.... 

Pretty Boy hear jingle-jangle of spurs. 

13

14 

Av’rage Man done turn nta Deadwood Dick. Put on boots n mosey on down 

trail. 

Him not want nothuh dance. Pretty Boy only good for one Tango. 

Av’rage Man now Ghetto Cowboy Man. Homey, Homey on da range... 

Pretty Boy make a.m. o’clocktail. Cry wid Miz Butterworth n Aint Jemima. 

Him fry bacon in freezer, crack shells in eggs, scorch grits, put salt in coffee. 

Maybe that why Av’rage man think Pretty Boy a bad cook. 

Last Call! LAST CALL! Last Dance! Last Chance for Romance! ... 

Pretty Boy still be sittin on bar stool. Not want it to fly away. 

Time tick-tock away. Pretty Boy 2 old 2 still be pretty. Much 2 old 2 be boy. 

But him painted by master on good canvas. Hold up damn well! 

Pretty Boy see hisself in bar mirror. It not crack. 

Him still got nice style, good color, strikin composition. 

Light bulb flash! over Pretty Boy head! In next life, him goan come back as Da 

Mona Lisa. Make good portrait in frame ... next to exit sign. 

Elmo Terry-Morgan is Associate Professor of Africana Studies, and Theatre, Speech 

and Dance; and is Artistic Director of Africana Studies’ Rites and Reason Theatre. 

His course Black Lavender: A Study of Plays with Black LGBT Content and the 

Africana Studies Department is convening The Black Lavender Experience, 

presentations of works by Black Queer playwrights, FolkThoughts and panels in 

April 2009.

16 

are you a man?

Basma Samira 

i told you that if we went any further 

i could never go backwards 

we jumped into our kiss and 

you 

said nothing 

are you that man 

determined to drive through the 

snowstorm 

so 

we could be together. 

are you that man 

enjoying 

my natural medicine 

are you like any man 

or 

are you the man 

i do not sense if you ignore me 

or 

if i regret 

i do want you 

so 

what are you up to 

I write 

speak 

run 

by any means necessary 

to 

the nearest word 

that is honest 

but if you want to be cowardly then 

mail your words 

and 

be done with me. 

17

Pensamientos de Cuba 

18 

Courtney J. Smith 

If someone were to ask me how is Cuba, I would not even know how to begin to answer 

that question. One thing for sure is that it is a very beautiful, complicated place 

to live in. My time here so far has been a mix of joys and frustrations. The privileges 

that I am afforded here, as an American, are at times difficult to think about. Cuba 

runs on two economies: one mainly for tourists and the other reserved for Cuban citizens. 

I try my best to “do as the Cubans do”, but at the same time my $5 “splurge” on 

lunch one day is equivalent to half the monthly salary of many people I know here. 

On the other hand, my experience here as an individual has been greatly different 

from most of the other Brown students here. When I am out on the street people think 

I am Cuban because I am Black, so I have been given some social access and privilege 

that my peers don’t have. But even though I am American, being Black here 

does not immune me from the racial problems of this country. Especially within my 

school (Casa de las Americas), I am constantly targeted as not being as intelligent, 

healthy, or capable as my peers. I have been called several names including “Amazon 

woman”, “LaWanda” (I really don’t know what that means), or simply negra as 

I walk down the street. I have had people within seconds of meeting me ask me if I 

danced “African Dance”. I have been at clubs and had to push away white foreigners 

who try to take pictures of me dancing because they thought I was a jinitera (a 

loose term for prostitute or a woman who tries to hustle foreigners for money or marriage). 

I have witnessed several incidents of police brutality against Black men. From 

the little statues with disfigured butts and lips that we have all seen in Anani’s office to 

white foreigners chasing Cuban women, I have seen many forms of the exploitation 

of the Black and Mulatto body. I have seen one of the most famous male dancers in 

the world, Carlos Acosta, play the “black brute” on stage as hundreds of people— 

mainly Europeans—scream and applaud. I have met Black and poor families whose 

roofs are literally collapsing on them as they sleep. 

People may read these incidents I just described and think: “So what? This shit happens 

in the U.S.” or “Of course this happens, Cuba is a third world country”. And I 

have definitely received those responses. But this is a country where someone who is 

the head of a major educational institution and a member of the General Assembly 

told me, “Racism simply does not exist in Cuba because the mulatta is our national 

symbol”. This is a country where the Revolution supposedly eradicated all forms inequality 

and everyone has equal access to education, healthcare, and their monthly 

rations of food. I am constantly wondering: How can you maintain a 99% literacy rate 

when there is a tremendous shortage of teachers? When checking out books from 

libraries is almost impossible and everything is dated from the ‘60s and ‘70s? How can 

you eat when you are rationed five eggs a month and a few pounds of rice? How can 

you live in your house when you make about $10 a month and the six bags of cement 

you need to fix your roof cost more than three times what you make? Of course this 

happens in other countries, but this is Cuba! This shit is extremely contradictory to the 

rhetoric of this socialist Revolution that you see plastered on every billboard, every 

wall, and every classroom—liberation, equality, human rights, justice, solidarity, and 

altruism. Everyday I walk around and it does not make any sense.

Photo by 

Ana Lyman 

19

20 

Of course, no form of government is perfect and I have seen how the Revolution has 

beenvery successful. Education is free. You don’t have to pay to get a degree. Healthcare 

is free. Doctors practice preventive care and whatever ailment you have they will treat 

you. You never have to feel unsafe walking down the street. Food is scarce but people 

don’t die of hunger. If there is a hurricane, your government won’t forget about you. All of 

these things are important, but I am constantly wondering what all of this means when you 

were historically marginalized before 1959? What does it mean when your entire country 

constantly tries to erase your racial identity? What happens when opportunities open up 

for you like they did with the “triumph” of the Revolution, but you still lag behind from a 

historical disadvantage that stems from racial, class or gender affinity? Although the Revolution 

was meant for those who were on the margins of society, it was something that was 

created by—and continues to be run by—white men. Blacks, women, people who identify 

as LGBTQ, farmers, workers and the poor are still trying to catch up. And since there are 

no social programs for Blacks (because the act of publicly recognizing racial inequalities 

is socially dangerous or “counter-revolutionary”), they are even further from reaching the 

finish line. 

Although I have read so much about the shortcomings of Red Cuba before I came here, it 

is hard having such a romantic idea of the Revolution and being forced to face its reality. 

At times I feel I do not even have the tools to address social issues here. Being in Cuba has 

allowed me to realize that Cuba cannot be preserved as a moment of revolutionary possibility 

to which we fondly like to refer. Yes, it is an example of a sustaining political and social 

movement that has big implications when we think about the ideas of anti-capitalism, and 

anti-imperialism, and Third World Unity. But I am constantly thinking: what is going to be 

this “Third Way” that we talk about creating? What is going to be the new example of revolution? 

These thoughts have especially been on my mind when I see what is going on with 

the failure of the US economic system and how it is affecting my family and community. 

Despite all of my frustrations I have found some amazing people here and a supportive 

community. I have hooked up with a Black Nationalist who is in political exile here from 

the United States. She has been wonderful in helping me look at my experience constructively. 

I have also met so many people who have found ways to fight the shortcomings of 

the Revolution and have created mechanisms for collective survival that I feel at times we 

lack in the United States. Through music, literature, art, and religion many people have 

found spaces to be resistive and critical inside the Revolution. Meeting these people has 

made my experience truly wonderful. I cannot wait to share all my discoveries with you all. 

Clearly, I am very critical but I guess it is the “burden” of being a conscious person. 

In solidarity, 

Courtney J. Smith 

November, 2008 

Havana

Michael Gray 

21

22 

To 

See Me 

Marlaina H. Martin 

I’ve been told that my eyes… 

These gorgeous orbs… 

These captivating jewels beset by mocha skin 

And arches of sienna whiskers… 

Tell stories when gazed into 

Stories of my ancestors 

Of Sojourner’s rousing orations and Harriet’s risky travels 

Of Ruby Bridges and her courage beyond her years 

Of hardship, of struggles, of victory 

But have you ever felt that, even though you couldn’t 

see them, someone was staring at you? 

Well, I can’t… 

I have felt the opposite though, when people are 

looking 

Yet never truly seeing 

A rotund, nineteen-year old black girl with large 

almond-shaped, brown eyes 

A nineteen-year old black girl with large brown eyes 

A black girl with brown eyes 

A black girl 

Black 

People are always trying to simplify me 

Wondering how my home and school life are both 

happy, 

As if melanin makes either poor grades or violence 

mandatory 

…Newark and LA flowing through my veins 

Stammers evolve as associates tiptoe around the issue 

of political correctness 

Making situations more awkward with frequent pauses 

which with to think if a phrase is ‘fair’ or ‘polite’ to say 

But to answer your question, it does not hurt when 

you use ‘black’ to describe me. It only hurts when this 

aspect engulfs my whole being in your eyes, dwarfing 

individual traits 

…like personality for instance 

Sensationalized, black women lie in the realm of dual 

stereotype 

They are to be submissive yet obscene 

Headstrong and materially insatiable 

Just like those black women on television, the media’s 

psychosis on what I should be… 

With Ms. New York used as a standard instead of a 

dramatization 

My battle must be, not in reinforcing the assumption, 

but in proving the exception

Michael Gray 

23

24 

Mahogany 

Unicorns 

Kristin Jordan 

Us: Mom, why are things brown? 

Mother: what’s brown? 

Us: like chocolate and dirt 

Mother: they are kissed by the sun 

baby 

Us: and me and mahogany 

wood? 

Mother: you are kissed by the sun 

too 

I think I knew, always, that those 

kissed by the sun were blessed. 

I wasn’t born with these words 

though. Mom encouraged it. 

She encouraged my search for 

mythical answers and my desire to 

be royal. 

Our home was mahogany wood 

because mom loved this tree. She 

carved this wood to put in our 

bedroom, to give as gifts to family, 

and to sell as a last resort when 

money was needed. Of course all 

of this could be false. I don’t really 

remember what it was. At the time 

my dreams mixed with the literal 

words spoken to me and about 

me. I could be one second on an 

island and then in a rainforest and 

then in the sky. See I was young 

enough to fly so nothing was real. 

The creatures were my favorites, 

and as much my family as anything 

else. Baby sister was sometimes an 

elf and sometimes a baby. I liked 

her better as an elf. As a baby 

she would only cry but as an elf 

she would put pictures all down 

the hall or go visit the chocolate 

man next door. Mom didn’t know 

about these missions outside our 

room. They were secret missions 

and for my silence I got part of the 

chocolate that was brought back. 

I never would have told though, 

even without the chocolate.

The first time I was a unicorn, I 

knew I would never be anything 

else again. There was nowhere 

that was not home as a unicorn. 

I could go anywhere and my 

magic would protect me and 

make me feel I was home. That’s 

the difference between being a 

child and being a unicorn. See 

that horn broke down everything, 

could do anything—did you know 

I could fly? Back as a unicorn I 

could fly if I wanted to. Nothing 

was real. 

Once when I was a unicorn and 

baby sister was an elf we stopped 

for water. We should not have 

stopped to drink. Real unicorns 

don’t need water and real elves 

don’t have to fetch the water 

from the kitchen sink. And real 

unicorns don’t drink from glasses 

and real elves don’t slide on 

mahogany wood floors. Real elves 

don’t turn into babies who cry at 

their arms colored in red stains 

and shredded glass. Real unicorns 

don’t scream for their moms who 

are not home. Who are never 

home, but who are always out 

selling mahogany wood. And real 

unicorns are magic and they can 

heal if ever wounded and they 

are powerful and they don’t hug 

their bleeding sisters in their arms 

as their fantastical worlds crash 

around them. And real unicorns 

are pure…and white…and not 

kissed by the sun…and not like 

me. 

25

26 

Not 

Just 

Breathing BUT 

SHOUTING 

Emily Taylor 

Emma takes only five minutes longer than she says she will, but Molly and I are so jangled, circling each 

other on the sidewalk, that we debate leaving her behind. We’ve been away from the news for too 

long, even though we know the first polls have only just closed; there’s nothing to see yet. She comes 

and we take the 6 train to 116th St., then walk to Jacon’s, where there’s a TV. When we get there, 

CNN is colorful and dynamic and terrifying. We distract ourselves by baking brownies and paging 

through course catalogs, willing the minutes to pass, the electoral vote counts still meaninglessly low 

on both sides. Jacon and Emma have their laptops open, clicking on states, reading out statistics. We 

laugh at the overdone graphics and the holograms. What strange era are we living in? 

“We should go to Harlem,” says Emma. “Shouldn’t we go to Harlem? We should go to Harlem.” We’ve 

been sitting for too long. I’m sinking into the couch, and the beer and a half I’ve drunk is making my 

eyes tired. When we step outside, we discover the night isn’t cold. The M101 bus stops around the 

corner. It comes at 11:02 and will take us straight to 125th and Adam Clayton Powell, where there’s a 

projection screen and people gathered. I exchange smiles with a black man and woman, the only 

other people at the bus stop. There’s honking in the distance and people are shouting. People are 

shouting. The taxis going by are honking, quick short bursts, over and over and over. There’s no way, 

we say to each other, to the man and woman. It’s too early. He only had 207 when we left the house. 

They can’t have called it yet. I dial my house in California. Mom, they didn’t call it yet, did they? “Yes,” 

she confirms. “Yes. It’s a projection, but he’s won.” I call out the news to my friends, to the rest of the 

bus. I hear my words take hold around me, and I try to translate them into something solid like the 

metal pole my hands have found to grip. Is it real? It’s not real. It’s real. I tell Mom we’re on our way 

to Harlem, and she tells me to be safe. I feel safe. I don’t know what the world looks like right now but 

I think that we might be safe. 

More and more honks and shouts ring out around us as the bus rolls forward through the night, west 

and then uptown. Dani calls. I cover my eyes and answer the phone “Oh my God.” Molly tells me later 

that I screamed. “Brown is crazy,” Dani says. They’re running and dancing in the street. Someone’s 

climbing the flagpole. We get off the bus a block before 125th because it can’t contain us, our joy 

and disbelief, our unknowing and our relief. People line the streets, their smiles wide and real, highfiving, 

raising power fists out the windows of their cars. We reach 125th and Adam Clayton Powell, 

where the square bursts with people facing the projection screen. We move past a drum circle, a 

line of news cameras, so many black faces. We find a place and cheer for everything, every mention 

of hope and change, of new days and turning points. The crowd hums. When will he speak? Isn’t it 

time yet? And finally, his face on the screen, he’s walking out on stage, one hand raised, waving to 

the Chicago crowd, the other holding Sasha’s hand, Malia and Michelle next to them. Later this will

e the image I can’t take my eyes off of, the four of them all looking like each other, all wiry frames 

and model cheekbones, and I could swear their skin tones are not one shade different from mine. 

We’ve been waiting so long. They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I could cry like 

Jesse Jackson, all stoic teary eyes. 

There’s a roar here in the heart of Harlem, then the most reverential of hushes as he reaches the 

podium. “Hello, Chicago,” he says, and of course he’s so composed. Part of me wants to see him 

cheer, raise a fist, laugh incredulously and slowly shake his head. But no, his speech is measured 

and his word choice flawless, as always. I’ll watch this over and over in the following days. Never, 

though, will I need to be reminded of the inflection in his voice when he told us, when he told me, 

“This victory belongs to you.” I’ll remember how he repeated himself, the absolute gravity of his 

tone. We’ve been waiting so long. 

What strange era are we living in? Everything that’s happening, onscreen and all around me, 

occurs and becomes history at the same time. The present and our history and the future are 

indistinguishable, inextricable. And this history, this moment in which I’m better than alive, not just 

breathing but shouting, will not be told by the oppressor because there is no oppressor tonight. Isn’t 

it time yet? There are only the voices and faces and moving feet of people, people who cast ballots 

and crossed fingers and watched the news and held their hope safe but heavy in their chests. And 

now it’s midnight, like some kind of perfect New Year’s Eve, and I am more than a witness. 

We drift downtown. Tomorrow’s New York Times headline will be only his name, the next line 

proclaiming the fall of the last racial barrier in politics. I’ll buy the paper and place it carefully in a 

drawer of things to save. A man in a bar tells me after we toast to the victory that people will see 

black men differently now, that there will be no more fear. I can’t bring myself to agree but tonight 

there is no reason to be anything but happy. 

My grandfather chooses the word “overdue” to describe the event when he speaks to me by 

phone from a hospital bed. My mother writes to me of her newfound pride. And my fourth-graders, 

they are Dominican and black and white and Asian. They are too young even to be a part of 

the generation accused of apathy, too young to remember September 11th, but this, they will 

remember this. Aracely, whose writing needs work, whose face is always worried. Katherine, with 

her pink backpack and teenage attitude. Randy, with his impeccable handwriting, who wrote ten 

scientific observations when asked for five. Oh, we’ve been waiting so long. Their president, my 

president, is black. All of us together have lived to see the day. 

27

28 

A Post 

Yaa Sarpong 

Brazil 

For most people of my generation, November 4, 2008 is one of our most memorable days, but not 

in the same way that 9/11 or the invasion of Iraq is memorable. We have seen something that our 

parents and grandparents had never envisioned. One hundred forty-three years after the end of 

slavery and forty years after the peak of the Civil Rights movement, the United States elected a 

black president. I had the pleasure of witnessing the election as an outsider on the inside. What 

I mean when I say that is I watched the intense final days of the 2008 Election as a student and 

foreigner in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I first visited Rio in March 2008 during the height of the primary 

battle between Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton. In Brazil, the support was overwhelmingly in 

Obama’s favor because, as one man proclaimed to me, the US did not need “any more blue 

eyes.” As the battle raged on between Obama and John McCain, Brazil was no different from the 

rest of the world and majority of the US citizens hurt by the economic crisis and the selfish policies 

of the Bush era, desperately wanting to end the Republican reign. 

Most of the world sees the U.S. as an empire on its last breath, but with this omnipresent global 

era on our hands, the decline of the United States means the economic collapse of most the 

industrialized and, subsequently, unindustrialized world. On the morning of November 5, 2008, my 

black housekeeper told me the results of the election as I rushed out of the house. I could see 

that there was genuine joy in her eyes to see the realization of a black man in charge of the most 

powerful country in the world. In Brazil, being a housekeeper carries more baggage than most 

occupations. She is next to nothing, on her feet more than twelve ours out of the day, and held 

behind the strict line of worker—not family member. And she works for a kind boss. I can distinctly 

remember her telling me, and a little bit after I thought, “She probably never held the same hope 

for her own country.” 

Since his election, there wasn’t a day in the month of November when Barack Obama was not on 

the cover of some magazine or newspaper or a headline on the evening news. Brazilians, especially 

of the American baby boom generation, never hoped that this day would come because they 

witnessed first hand the atrocities of the 1960s and mass killings of black male public figures, and 

for them there is no difference between Martin, Malcolm, and Barack. What struck me during 

the aftermath of the election was when everyone was congratulating me on the US living up the 

promise of its democracy. But Brazil is accountable to that same democracy; yet, it has a larger 

and more subjugated black population than the United States. No one—not even my educated 

professors—holds any hope for a black president in Brazil. But as I am constantly reminded, there 

is no racism in Brazil. The persistent idea is of the other in Brazil. The other country can have these 

great leaps and bounds, but these things are impossible in Brazil. My exchanges with black people 

can fill a book with their reactions when they find out that I am from Africa or when I tell them I live 

in the US. They are filled with varying reactions from envy to blind questioning of my upbringing. I still 

have not figured out the reasons for any of these reactions and might have to move a mountain 

of research if I am to do so.

For the most part, I am surrounded by white people of my age group. I have the pleasure of 

attending one of the most pretentious—I mean, prestigious—schools in Rio de Janeiro: Pontifica 

Universidade Catolica (PUC). It is one of the few private institutions here held in high esteem 

because most of the private schools here have a reputation of catering to the spoiled brats of the 

rich and famous. PUC is not really any different, but it attracts better professors and slightly smarter 

spoiled brats. The reaction of the spoiled brats—I mean, students—to the American elections is 

taken straight from their parents’ financial advisors. Due to Brazil’s incredible disparity of wealth, 

rich Brazilians have a lot to fear when Democratic president—black or white—takes office. These 

men tend to implement policies that help close the gap between the rich and poor, which means 

that the rich have to give so that the poor can receive. And no one wants to give these days. 

But I don’t necessarily blame the upper class because the state of economic relations over he 

last 500 years in this country has made the cost of living incredibly high for anyone who wants 

to buy quality products. It was a shock to my system when I arrived here, and people who have 

money here are unwilling to scrape to afford the same standard of living. The students at PUC 

were unwilling to put the same faith that most young people in the world put in Barack Obama, 

who was fighting for the presidency against a man who was 25 years his senior and apart of 

an antiquated retiring generation. Obama’s candidacy spurred the United States away from 

representation by people in this gray area between their ideology held over from youth and the 

disenchantment of middle age. Obama still held that ideology and had a very young family to 

promote that change. 

So of course most Brazilians made it their business to keep up with every twist, debate, and new 

promise during the election season. 

Before the economic down turn, I found it surprising when a Brazilian said he was an Obama 

supporter because, unlike most of us, Brazil benefited from policies of the Bush era that John McCain 

was more than inclined to continue. Brazil is a great tourist attraction, a large ethanol producer, 

and more than willing to play ball with Bush’s plans for its natural resources, letting everyone win 

in the game of partisan politics of the last eight years. Then I thought about the image of Obama 

himself. It is the same image that the Brazilian government has been perpetuating (successfully) 

to the world at large. A post race, post division, harmonious perfect blend. His election signaled 

that the Brazilian way is the right way, and that the Americans finally opened up their eyes to the 

right way. 

I’m glad I experienced the elections from abroad because although I missed experiencing this 

historic moment with my family and friends, I have more clarity than most people in the US. Barack 

Obama is facing one of the steepest uphill climbs that any president in recent memory has every 

faced: a multi-front war both abroad and at home; a capsizing economy; discontent at home; 

and talks of the end of a Roman Empire size downfall will not be fixed in one year, and it might 

not be fixed in four years. It’s time for the country to stand behind this man that we have put into 

office, but let us not lose our objectivity because, after all, he is a president and not infallible. 

He will make mistakes because he is young, and being president is not something for which one 

prepares. 

With that being said, I join Brazil and welcome the Obamas years into the White House. 

29

Si ou te ka wè andedan nanm mwen, 

wè andedan kè mwen, 

ou tap konnen kòman mwen bezwen ou 

nenpòt lè nou pa ansanm. 

Si ou te ka wè andedan tèt mwen, 

si panse se te yon bagay nou te kapab wè avèk je nou, 

ou tap konnen kijan mwen renmen ou, 

sa ou vle di pou mwen. 

Tout jan ou rekonfòte mwen, 

jan ou kenbe’m pre ou, 

jan ou konnen kisa pou fè 

pou kapab kouri dèyè tout sak k fè mwen pè. 

Briyans ki nan bel je ou yo, 

souri ou, ri ou, jan ou manyen m’, 

sa se yon ti kal nan tout rezon 

mwen renmen ou anpil konsa. 

Jan mwen konnen ke m’ ka pale avèk ou 

de nenpòt bagay ak tout bagay, 

lè fini jan mwen konnen ke n’ap toujou 

kapab pèsevere nan tout obstak ke lavi a ka pote. 

Mwen ka chèche nan tout monn nan 

men, mwen konnen vrèman, 

mwen pa te kapab jwenn yon lòt lanmou 

tankou lanmou mwen jwenn avèk ou. 

Menmsi avèk chak nouvo jou, chak solèy leve, 

nou pa kapab konnen ki sa k’ap tann nou, 

gen yon sèl bagay mwen konnen tout bon, 

chak jou mwen renmen ou pi plis. 

Donk, si ou te ka wè andedan tèt mwen, 

si panse se te yon bagay nou te kapab wè avèk je nou, 

ou tap konnen kijan mwen beni 

pou’m genyen ou la avèk mwen. 

(Haitian Creole) 

30 

Andedan 

mwen 

Max Clermont 

Gedes’ Mirror Effect by Patrick Sylvain 

Photo of a Vodoun ceremony celebrating the Day of the Dead. © P. Sylvain, Nov. ‘04

The Hegemony 

of Language 

Paula Kaufman 

I have nightmares about people kidnapping my teachers. I wake up screaming. I wake rubbing my 

eyes as they are being carried away. I too am bound, though my arms are free, my mouth is open. Are 

there others for whom learning is the binding, the casing, the joinery? Axis on which the world spins—this 

goes far beyond geography. Are there others who want to unseal the casing from this planet, and pour 

the steaming guts out on the grass and listen to the sound it makes? 

I am a knowledge thief. My want is so strong it will tear you. This is knowledge-hunger. Babies wanting 

as much as needing milk. Babies curl their fingers around that original hunger, awake in the night, 

screaming because they are curious. This is the genesis. The heartwood of our longing. 

We had to steal a little learning, hungry, greedy for language, tucking dictionaries in our pants. Learning 

almost assumed militancy. To be crazed/ bewitched by it, to have no other life than this, no sight, to be 

bug like, 10,000 eyes that won’t stop snapping, clicking to education, that word tenuous—sinuous—as 

any river. Why does learning become radical in its difficulty to possess? It is like gripping the sky for air, 

catching fireflies with an open mouth, not fireflies. Your asking me to go back to a uni-dimensional 

mind? All I hear is music. “If you want to get a PhD you must really want it. It’s living at near-poverty for 

a while” a student says. I’ve stood on the rooftop with birds. Because my soul did not die with the end 

of Russian literature. My soul is tuned by thought like a guitar. The primary source of Jill Scott. 

Education is like tree-bark: nothing to climb but up. I believe in the democracy of paperbacks, their 

light-weightedness. My best life is when I rove with a knapsack. We map the mind as we travel, not 

before. 

My Professor Tricia Rose says you’ve got to know history, otherwise you’ll be rolling the bolder back up 

the hill instead of starting where that damn rock started, maybe half way, or 2/3 up. Instead of Europehopping 

I class-hope, dropping in on Universities until teachers tell directors and directors tell teachers 

and it gets back to the hegemony of language. We flat-role history [some .] But then there are a lot of 

us trying to prop it back up, puff air into deflation of souls. 

The weight of categories. Fucked up. The hegemonic use of English how one language [Queen English?] 

becomes blue-ribbon standard. And there are never enough words I know how to pronounce, but use 

anyhow. I’m friends with people that use the dictionary. It’s the act of turning pages--want. Motherhunger, 

word-hunger. I don’t care which word (what?) word sticks. 

The weight of the category of the American empire hardly registers into our intellectual teaching. The 

languages of empiricism. Change does not necessarily mean reform. Frantz fanon. Colonialism is a 

totalizing system, it impacts all. “Talking about indigenous people in the abstract, but murdering them 

in the concrete”—Dr. Cornel West. The United States does not even think of itself as an empire, we had 

manifest destiny….our island colonies, Hawaii, “What, you think we were just out for a swim?”-C. West. 

Notion of collectivity: give it up, put your hands in the air, the striking unity of so many, one motion, one 

voice, one beat. 

31

32 

COINTELPRO. Ever heard of it? (FBI’s covert actions against America.) We could talk about this at 

Harvard, Yale, Brown and Princeton if they wanted too, a student says in our class. The FBI wrote 

Dr. King telling him to commit suicide: “King, there is only one thing left for you to do. You know 

what it is…You better take your filthy, abnormal fraudulent self before is bared to the nation.” 

(COINTELPRO documents online. www.icdc.com) But like American Indian history, they just 

don’t. This is blockbuster material, says the prof. I know more about Latin American coops than 

this illegal activity—murder, bugging, fractionalizing—that existed in my own gov until someone 

stole and released the documents out of the FBI’s office. 

I know about McCarthyism and not this, Watergate, and not this. Dwight, who says he’ll be 

a history teacher—a damn good one I think—teach for America, says history is written by 

the victors, and the Black Panther Party were not victors. Cointelpro; Hiroshima; Japanese 

Internment; Guantanamo; spying. A patriot Act 90% of the country has never heard of? But 

touches all. Dissent was the seed of the first amendment, Jessie says. It was created explicitly so 

colonists could dissent without fear of retribution. 

In our class Camille asks why there is not a national voting standardization, policy with equal 

rules. Is it undemocratic that some states polling places close at 7? Others 8? And, tell me again 

why we are angry about more people voting, why we want to make the heart of our democracy 

harder to implement? Call and response. put your hands in the air, raise your voice, passing the 

MIC around, balance of power, interaction between performer and audience, democratic 

culture behind it. Equality implicit in all of this. That is democracy, unity, power, individuality, too. 

If there is no response the call falls flat, fails, the artist is mocked by the masses. 

A deep love, a radical love—by this I mean. What in your life are you eager to fight for? Be 

as variable as constellations, change with the months, minutes. We are not running from laws, 

but finding them, finding our own print, own history, what is primary, primordial. Never so much 

answers, but the source of our answers, the fulcrum of longing, fire-hunger to read a primary 

source, feed a primary source, feel it live. 

And so we come to today, on the precipice of something as promising as opportunity. Someone 

said we can take the horror of the last years and make a change for tomorrow. We will never 

forget on whose shoulders we stand. But we will march on. This generation, whatever letter you 

give us will not be stupid or passive.

Politically-Correct 

This region is 

Arid 

Barren 

Cold: 

hospitable 

as the ruins of a burnt-out home 

charred, 

forlorn. 

Water sizzles here over baked stones, 

then drips away to nourish nothing, 

other sustenance ‘disappeared’ 

–like those our tyrants deemed to be their enemies- 

Uncountenanced. 

And visions? 

Ah, as for those they are not born, 

but happen 

with the precision of newly-minted arrow-heads. 

that fall to strike at our feet, 

or 

wee boomerangs ricocheting into our heads 

doing their damage 

as they rush out and bang back in. 

This place, I swear, 

will be no good for anybody, 

or thing, 

if 

it was not also so 

imperiously commanded, and 

majestically essential: 

a strengthening 

must-space to sojourn 

to ward off decay and despair 

every now, and every then. 

Ama Ata Aidoo 

Hunger 

33

34 

Mark Brown 

There is something quite relieving about going abroad. It sharpens your senses. Things become new 

again. Society becomes deconstructed and we become free of a bunch of our baggage. Living in 

Australia has been one of the best times of my life. I don’t mean that in the typical “Oh my God, 

I went abroad and it changed my life” way but actually in a sincere manner. Not because I saved 

the word from poverty, or alleviated child hunger, or helped in a volunteer shelter – not that those 

things are not important and that unnecessary. However, I went abroad to save one person: me. 

I would like to take the time to reflect about my experiences about the land I so fondly call Oz. 

One of the things that I had forgotten about my experience at Brown University was the agency that comes 

with visibility. I feel that in a lot of situations we that we are powerful just by being a presence in someone’s 

life or being in the world. Here in Australia, I have been living in Whitley College. Living here has been an 

eye-opening experience regarding the ideas of agency and power of visibility. I am queer. I am biracial. I 

am black. I am Puerto Rican. Now, although those may not seem so interesting to the Brown community, 

consider the fact that, at Whitley, I am the first African-American, the first Latino, and the first queer/gay 

person that people have met. Most people are at least given the chance to ease into my complex identity 

by meeting a black person, then a queer person, and then a black and queer person. Not all of these at once. 

Australia has yet to rectify its issues regarding colonialism with Aboriginal people. Most Australians 

only perceive black people through US media (and we all know how great that has done for our image 

– not that I am arguing for the idea of “respectability”). There have been so many discussions around 

the dinner table where people have asked me, “Are black funerals really like in the movies?” or, my 

personal favorite, “Do you all really eat all that fried food?” Now, I know these are stereotypical questions, 

but I know that I was able to change the way people think about African-Americans and queerness. 

Another interesting aspect of this experience has been the moments in which my blackness has been 

highlighted. However, I sometimes forget that I am black when the world allows me. Not in the sense 

that I “lose myself,” but sometimes my different identities overlap and I find myself simply in a state 

of being. However, being here, being around people so interested and ignorant about black culture has 

made my race even more apparent to me. There is another black male in the program with me and his 

name is Chris. One time Chris and I started talking about black music, rappers, and the American dream. 

After talking to each other for about ten minutes, a white Whitley-an friend of mine said, “I have no 

idea what the two of you were talking about.” Another friend told us that he and I talked differently 

to each other than we do to other people. Now, I had not been conscious of this but upon reflection 

of our conversation I realized that the American accent is already hard enough for Aussies to understand 

one can only imagine what African-American Vernacular English sounds to them. It literally is 

another language to them. Another moment in which this same hyper-visibility of my race happened 

was through a moment when I discussed my hair with one of my friends. Australia is going through a 

drought (I know, its an island – surrounded by water – how can it be in a draught?) and so the city asks

for people to take 3-5 min showers. When I was discussing this with one of my Australian friends they 

mentioned that they could shower and wash their hair in that amount of time. I explained to her that I 

can taka a shower in that amount of time but washing my hair requires some serious time and labor. She 

looked at me because she did not understand the texture, curliness, and thickness that African-Americans 

must deal with when washing their natural hair. Needless to say, I was a light bulb in her darkness. 

Regardless of all of this cultural dialogue, I must also mention that this educational process has not 

always been beneficial. There have been moments in which I have been objectified and trivialized. 

Returning again to the issue of my hair, one of my friends told asked his colleague if he had 

touched black hair before and when he said no, he told him to touch my hair. When he told me that 

he had done this I had to then tell him that what he had done was offensive and explained to him 

the issues around objectification. Another moment was the fact that one of my friends said, “If Obama 

messes up he will be lynched.” Although my friend did not mean anything offensive in an overtly 

racist way due to his ignorance of the issue of lynching and African-American history, I had to then 

educate him on our violent and brutal history. Moments like these remind me that although learning 

from others is always a valuable experience, sometimes boundaries and ignorance go a bit too far. 

In total, my time in Whitley has been amazing. Learning from others, picking up the Australian vowel patterns, 

and just hanging around has been great. My presence has had one of the most interesting impacts on 

both the people around me and myself as well. Australia has reminded me just how important it is to meet people 

and to be a body in the room -- a reminder of a world and experience outside the normative and their own. 

35

36 

A Conscious Road to Recovery: 

Talks of Sex and the Collective 

Psyche of a People 

Elvis Alves 

Introduction 

I had the opportunity to visit the market place on a recent trip to Guyana, a small country located 

in the northeast portion of South America. The Market place is an open, and therefore public, space 

where goods are sold, and naturally people gather. Expanding on this point, one can readily argue 

that the market place is unique. Everyone must come to it out of necessity of survival. Simply put, if you 

want to survive, you need food and food is sold at the market place. It can also be argued that the 

market has a life of its own—adding to its specialness. 

Healing of a Nation 

It is reported that there are more citizens of Guyana living abroad than are actually living in Guyana. 

This exodus of the people is primarily due to the high rate of poverty and the lack of opportunities for 

social mobility currently prevalent in the country. Regardless of this reality, the people find ways to 

survive or at least make sense out of what life offers them. The market place offers a canvass as to how 

this behavior is put into form. More specifically, talks of sex (playful or not), and as put on display at the 

market place, point to one way that the down-trodden attempts to empower themselves and can 

indicate the collective psyche of a people. 

Young Girl and Two Drunken Men 

A grand public play that involved the intrigue of sex centered on a conversation that I over-heard in 

the market place between a pregnant young woman and two drunken men. The young lady looked 

to be at least 17 years of age. Upon the encounter, the two older male acquaintances, who seemed 

to have been drinking alcohol for quite awhile prior to the meeting, chided her for getting pregnant 

again. The men loudly mocked her for not being able to control the sexual prowess of her man (no 

mention was made as to if she was married). They told her that she needs to be more assertive in 

making sure that her man does not ejaculate inside of her during the act of sex. This warning served 

as prelude to the grand scale of the nature of the conversation. More exactly, the two men began to 

boast as to the number of children that they fathered. 

One of the men was very vibrant and characteristically inviting as he described the different “wines” 

that one can perform in the act of sex to not only ensure impregnation of the female partner but also 

predetermine the sex of and number of children involved in the pregnancy. He mentioned that in 

order to create twins, the male partner while in the act of sex, needs to wine a certain amount of time 

to the left, to the right, and then ejaculate in the middle of the vagina. His drinking partner vehemently 

chimed in with his agreement throughout this portion of the conversation. They became louder and 

more eager to talk as they noticed people in the market place paying attention to them. They relished 

in the role of entertainers. 

The young woman seemed not to mind that the men were addressing her in such manner and in so 

doing called attention to her situation. She affectionately smiled at them throughout the process as if 

to show gratitude for the attention that they and others around were paying to her.

Slow Progress 

The livelihood of the act and desire to leave the country underscores the falsity of some of the positive 

sentiments (i.e. of pride) Guyanese show toward the projects instituted by the government. Citizens of 

Guyana know that their government is not doing enough to better their lives. Many are not ashamed to 

admit and plainly talk about this fact. Expressions of gratitude toward the projects (that are in actuality too 

small to be impactful) are a way to deal with, and therefore survive under measures that are oppressive 

in nature. 

A similar inference can be drawn as concern why people feel the need to talk about sex in the market 

place. Guyanese cannot control many things that negatively affect their lives. This inability is mostly due 

to the crushing nature, psychological and otherwise, of poverty. What they do have control of is their 

bodies. Talks of sex in the market place can be viewed as a way to publically affirm this control. The 

practice as a coping mechanism needs to be investigated via critical lens. On one hand, it allows for 

self expression in the midst of social ills that encroach on daily life. On the other hand, such talks prevent 

constructive evaluation of some of the sources and consequences of the social ills. 

As depicted in the story above, the two drunken men warned the young women against constant 

pregnancy but did not make mention to the use of contraceptives as one way to prevent unwarranted 

pregnancy. In addition to preventing unwarranted pregnancy, the use of contraceptives (i.e. condoms) 

is an effective way to prevent contracting (and spreading) HIV. Thus, there is the dire need for the talks 

of sex that occur in the public market place to develop educational leanings and not simply be a form 

of empty entertainment. Progressive talks tend to lead to constructive actions—and the government 

cannot be relied upon for this happening. Progress depends on the will of the people to bring about 

change. The market place offers a public space for the awakening of consciousness in the lives of the 

citizens of Guyana. This opportunity should not be wasted by vain talks of sex. 

37

38 

A Conversation with 

Dr. Michael Eric Dyson 


On January 29, 2007 renowned scholar and author Dr. Michael Eric Dyson spoke at Brown University 

delivering a convocation speech for Black History Month. Due to her tenacity and will, Cristina 

Rodrigues, a member of the African Sun, was able to sit down with Dr. Dyson for a conversation about 

black women, class, and hip hop. The African Sun thanks Dr. Dyson for granting us an interview. 

Cristina Rodrigues: You have spoken of the Afristocracy or “Black blessed” as having a history of 

detaching itself from the poor, which is reminiscent of DuBois’ talented tenth. Does this situation exist 

today? Given we’re at Brown, what type of relationship would you encourage us to build with poor 

people? (7:30) 

Michael Eric Dyson: First of all, to get as good an education as you can so that you don’t join the 

ranks of the economically oppressed. It’s a huge advantage. Don’t take that for granted. Go to 

school, study because there’s a correlation between higher education and having a decent job. 

Number two, in terms of the representational burdens, I think it’s important for Brown students to 

be sharp about these issues that complicate the lives of Black people. So many of the insights and 

ideas of the poor people, we take them for granted. We take what we think of as common sense 

as the basis for making judgments about their lives. While you’re here at Brown, I would encourage 

the Black blessed to study as hard as we can, especially about issues that confront poor Black 

people. There are big theories out here that say people are poor because they want to be poor; 

they don’t work hard. Is that right? I believe that people can exercise the ultimate form of personal 

responsibility and still be poor. You can be well-behaved and not have a job. People do the right 

thing and have the right values and yet you’re still locked out of the economy. We have to look at 

the rate of the movement of work overseas. If we live in a global economy, it is unfair to blame poor 

Black people for economic trends that are much larger than their design. What is it we keep saying 

about people? “You’re poor because you want to be poor”. When Bill Cosby assaults the poor with 

a jumble of stereotypes and misinterpretations, why don’t we challenge him? Why don’t we say 

that’s simply not right? It makes you feel better as a Black elite to throw off on poor Black people. 

Well, we should all be responsible. No doubt about that. However, how does that responsibility take 

shape? How do we hold people accountable who don’t have the same measures of economic 

wherewithal that others have? 

And Mr. Cosby’s poverty by the way wasn’t the same as my poverty. My poverty isn’t the same 

as young people’s poverty now. Poverty undergoes tremendous transformation over space and 

time. The best new work has suggested that most Americans at some point in their lives are going 

to move in and out of poverty. Most Americans are going to be poor. Are most Americans lacking 

in fundamental elements of human decency and striving that would render them poor? No. There 

have got to be explanations located in the political economy in which we live. Or how about 

persistent racism? How about when studies are done in New York by sociologists from Princeton who 

say you can be a Black man never having gone to prison and the job for which you compete will 

sometimes go to the white man who has been to prison. And you’ve studied hard. You’ve done the 

right thing. What’s the difference there? It can’t be preparation and it certainly can’t be behavior. 

There must be external factors that intervene on the job Market place. Racism is one such factor. 

Economic inequality is another. The aversion to poor Black people- how they look, the generational 

divide. When you put that together, it’s a more complicated picture. I think Brown students are 

obligated to know that and learn that. Don’t take hook, line and sinker what I say or what Bill Cosby 

said, but to study for themselves. Your obligation as a Brown student is to figure that stuff out, get 

deeper into it. Sometimes old people who are professional scholars haven’t done that, but as an 

elite, as a privileged person, we have a vested interest because these are our people. How they are 

being examined and scrutinized has a lot to do with our community and how racism operates.

CR: Given that personal responsibility may not be to blame for the situation of black people, how 

much of the solution will be institutional reform or an attack on capitalism. How much can be solved 

by a fundamental shift in our society and how much is just reform? 

MD: Both. Given the fact that we’ve backed off of both, I’ll take either one. I don’t have to go 

for the radical reconstruction and redistribution of wealth along an axis of progressive and creative 

realization of social goods and civic democracy. I’m down with that but I’ll just take the reform. Of 

course, my ultimate is the radical distribution but even reform has been backed up off of now. In 

reference to this notion willy-nilly that personal responsibility can solve all your problems. Now we (the 

rich) don’t have to be responsible anymore. The dictators of social responsibility no longer have to 

pony because, after all, it’s your fault you’re poor. It’s not structural features. It’s not political decisions 

made by elites, distributed through the system. No, no, how convenient! It’s your fault you’re not rich. 

Minimum wage has nothing to do with it. The depression of wages has nothing to do with that. The 

persistence of revolution to Black men in the marketplace has nothing to do with it. Other sociologists 

have determined that stereotypes about Black men’s disinclination to work have no bearing on 

this at all. That’s ridiculous because we live in a society where stereotypes alter people’s behavior 

towards vulnerable poor. Structural pieces play a big part in that. You can see that it’s very seductive 

to conclude that it’s the responsibility of the poor for lifting themselves out of poverty as opposed to 

pointing the finger at those of us who put them there or the structure that reinforces their position to 

be dealt with. Poor people didn’t invent the circumstances by which they’re poor, over one, two, 

three generations although most people would believe that they did. Although most people would 

believe there’s something destructive about their behavior or cultural values that is transmitted over 

space and time that explains why they’re there- in poverty, in the ghetto. I would never deny that 

there are traits that are self-destructive, that there are pathological features of any peoples’ culture, 

community, tribe or tradition of social organization. I would never deny that but that’s true of every 

class value, but now some people have enough money to absorb the pathology or to be able to not 

allow their deficits to overrule them or they got mommas and daddies with big enough checkbooks 

that they can cancel them out. 

One of the reasons I’ve embraced hip-hop culture over the years is because this is one of the arenas 

where the ugly truths and bitter realities are articulated that others would rather sweep under the 

carpet. Having said that, there’s enough social criticism that blows through the rhetoric and the lyrical 

intensity of the best rappers that reminds us of the lives of the poor. Some of the lyrics that testify to 

poverty, long before America came to grips with it (and it still hasn’t), is found in rap music. This is 

informal ethnology. Radical reconstruction is the ideal but even social reform would be preferable 

to the utter disregard for the conditions of the poor. The refusal of those of us who benefit from social 

inequality, because even charity which is given to the poor is a result of economic inequality. If we 

had radical social justice, charity would no longer be necessary. Charity is possible when a Bill Gates 

or an Oprah Winfrey gives money, which is beautiful when they do, but the very realities allow certain 

people to acquire enormous amounts of wealth. The reality is that economic inequality allows the 

accumulation of wealth by individuals who then because of that radical economic inequality chose to 

give some of that back. Charity rests upon radical economic inequality. Ironically enough, the radical 

economic inequality that creates the possibility of charity to address radical economic inequality is 

a failsafe program generated within the logic and lure of capitalism to maintain the inequality while 

creating the appearance of helping the less well off. It’s not all about cash but that’s important. 

CR: In your speech, you mentioned a breakdown of four types of oppression women face: 

femophobia, sexism, patriarchy, and chauvinism. That was fascinating. Can you break down these 

issues a little further? 

MD: If we see sexism as the sentiments against women because they’re women. If we see misogyny 

as the hatred and revulsion at the idea of women and the sustained effort to subordinate women in 

social relations. If we see patriarchy as the conscious or unconscious belief that men’s lives should 

set the norm by which others are judged, then femaphobia, for me, is the fear of women’s lives, the 

39

40 

utter horror that one recognizes when in the presence of a female that generates a nervousness that 

comes out in all kinds of nefarious fashions. When I see it in hip-hop, it comes out in the naming of 

women, epithets that are thrown at them. And it’s not just in hip-hop. It’s everywhere, because in a 

patriarchal system where masculinity is premised on strength and brute force and upon the ability to 

be superior when women appear as a challenge to all the myths that we’ve been told about what 

it means to be a man, who don’t accept the conditions of patriarchy as a part of their existence, 

that strikes fear and horror like white racism. Sometimes just being there, just your smell, your presence 

creates fear. 

The example I pointed out last night of the example of white slave masters who had the leisure to call 

working Black slaves lazy. One of those paradoxes happens when we exploit black female strength 

so much and at the same time we want to characterize them. We have this distinction between the 

good female and the bad female, the hootchie, the hoe and the bitch, chickenhead over here and 

good sister over here. Even that is challenged. A woman is a bitch if she doesn’t give in evenly to your 

sexual advances and if she does she’s a ho. There’s no space imagined and created within so many 

domains of the culture where woman can occupy as an agent of her own sexual design. If men go 

out and get with many women, they’re “the man”. If women do it, they’re cast aside morally, seen 

as incapable of being a mother or loyal wife. In that sense, femaphobia is rearticulated as a means 

to keep in place a hypocritical system that privileges men. I’m talking about the folklore about male 

dominance and female independence. And the fear a strong Black woman represents. 

CR: Is grand-scale progress possible within the Black community without a reconfiguration 

of gender roles, given the distinctive nature of gender roles that can be seen in the Civil Rights 

Movement, considering the downplay of figures like Ella Baker and iconization of figures like Martin 

Luther King Day? 

MD: I don’t think so. And gender is about men and women. Men think gender is about women 

like white people think race is about Black people. In the Black culture, we have failed to grapple 

with the fundamental elements of gender while dealing with who we are as a people. What Black 

people often fail to see is that gender balance is going to help Black men be more constructive to 

each other. Some of the stuff we do is to prove how “bad” we are to everyone else and to please 

the women in our lives. But what the women in our lives actually want is us to stop acting like a fool 

and treat me right. That withstanding, men perform in some embrace of an ideal and a norm of 

both masculine behavior and believing that that will impress the women they seek to conquer. If 

we gave up all of that madness and brought real gender justice to bear into our communities that 

would help us to stop harming each other and treating each other with deep disrespect. Gender 

justice would relieve Black men of the responsibility of performing in self-destructive behavior in many 

ways. It’s not just good for women, although that’s primary and constitutive. Gender reform isn’t just 

good for women; it’s a relief for men just as the civil rights movement began to relieve white people 

of their burden, of the messy obligation of trying to uphold the myth of superiority when they knew 

it wasn’t true. Black men, we know male supremacy is a joke. It’s not true, but we have to hold it 

up and reinforce it. Maybe gender justice would relieve that responsibility and release the healing, 

redemptive quality of domestic existence that Black feminism would bring into the world. Coming to 

a more progressive ideal between genders and within genders will usher in true, civic democracy. 

Short of that, it’s not going to happen because Black women are over half of our community. They 

certainly represent upward mobility and attainment in Black culture. Black women have brought 

virtues that would behoove the rest of us to obtain. There’s so much about the nature of our existence 

as people that is contained there.

The Staff 

Dayna-Joy Chin 

David Elion 

Cynthia Eleanya 

Sharon Makava 

Renata Sago 

Marsella Kachingwe 

Keturah Webster 


Folashade Modupe 

Philip Glenn 

Elvis Alves 

Amie Darboe 

Megan Smith 

Design by David Elion and Dayna-Joy Chin 

43

Hip hop has a vagina. - Brown University

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