Keepin It Real

Let me start out by saying that, although I'm not a gangsta or a thug, I enjoy listening to rap and hip hop every now and then. That being said...

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO RAP MUSIC?!?

I mean I can't stand rap music now. And apparently, a lot of people agree with me. As of 2005, hip hop sales were falling so much that TIME magazine felt compelled to ask the question of whether or not hip hop was "dying". Some of the theories floating around are: that some young people are tired of the violence, degrading imagery and lyrics.(not likely) Another theory is that falling sales are due to illegal downloading and P2P networks.(that's possible) Or perhaps it's because of the lack of lyrical content and "sampling" by newer artists.(maybe)
However, I don't subscribe to any of those theories. They all seem to have a hint of truth to them, but I think that the people who came up with those theories have overlooked one monumental idea that links them all together.

Today's rappers have SOLD OUT!!!!

There I said it.
Now before anyone decides to pop a cap in my, well, you know...let me just explain what I mean. When rap began back in the 1970's, all the way up until the late 1990's, people loved it because they could relate to it somehow. It spoke of poverty, crime, hard times, difficult situations, hopelessness and hope; it told the life stories of those who felt like no one ever listened or cared. Sometimes it was humorous, oftentimes it was violent, but it always seemed to SAY something, even if not everyone liked what they heard. The "old skool" rap could be thought of as an anthem for a whole group of people who needed an outlet; a voice.

The rappers of today still hold true to certain aspects of the "old skool": they still speak of "smackin' their b@*ch up" and other acts of violence; they still grossly overuse profanity. The difference seems to be that their target audience is no longer the disenfranchised masses, it's themselves. Or the upper classes.

Put away the gat, I'm still explaining!

Almost anytime you hear a hip hop song on the radio today, it's like listening to someone read the store directory out of VOGUE magazine. Lyrics are inundated with references to Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, and countless others. Most of which are spelled wrong in the lyrics! These people are shopping for jewelry and bling at places like Tiffany and Cartier. While drinking Courvoisier and Cristal.
What regular person can do that? I can't. The people in my neighborhood can't and I would like to think that my neighborhood is a step or two above the ghetto and they certainly can't unless they're doing something shady on the side. How are the rest of us listening to these rappers supposed to make any kind of connection to what they're talking about? That was the beauty of rap to begin with! That the person in front of the beat knew where you were coming from. can they really do that from Rodeo Drive?

So, the next time one of you "new skool" rappers are rolling down the street in your pimped-out Escalade, wearing your yearly salary's worth of ice around your neck or on your teeth, and your D&G clothes and Prada shoes, listening to the radio and hear your new track drop, when you turn your Gucci sunglasses to look around you, know this:
The people in the minivan behind you and the beat up Toyota next to you, just turned off that same station and are now listening to someone who really understood us. Someone who kept it real. Kept it simple. Like Run DMC. Or Vanilla Ice.
Peace, I'm out!

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

Most of us grew up hearing the classic fairy tales: Cinderella, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White. While most boys listened and then went off to play with their cars and action figures, the majority of us girls dreamed of being princesses and happily ever afters. Not once did it ever occur to us that Cinderella had eleven toes on her tiny feet; that Rapunzel got hair extensions to make her ladder of lovely locks; that Sleeping Beauty was actually snoozing at a private hospital in Switzerland getting cosmetic surgery to "preserve" her looks until her prince came along. And I never in a million years thought that Snow White, when coming across the Magic Mirror, would ask, "Do I look fat?".

These scenarios sound ridiculous, right? But these are the very things that we as individuals, and as a society, are searing into our children's maleable, little psyches. Right about now you're probably saying, "I would never tell my kids something like that". But take a look at the shows and movies you're watching while they play nearby. Skim through the magazines you leave laying around for tiny eyes to peruse. Listen to the criticism you heap on yourself when you don't think they're listening. And they're always listening, especially when you think they aren't. Now, maybe you can see what I mean.

I mentioned recently that I like to read fashion magazines( I said stop snickering!). Now, I could lie to you and say that I "just read them for the articles", but I won't. Truthfully, I read them for the whole package: the clothes, the makeup, the shoes, the current events, advice, health articles; all of it. The one thing I DON'T read them for is to see the skeletal remains of women encased in haute couture that they call "models". The very act of writing about them gives me shivers. What are they considered "models" of? The feminine form at it's best? Are you kidding me? These girl's look as if they were to stumble on the runway, that they would shatter into a million pieces! And it's not just "models" in magazines. The celebrities on TV and in movies look like stick figures, too. The mature Oscar winner right down to the young ingénue. Not only that, but younger and younger women are getting cosmetic surgery. Botox, implants; a lift here, a tuck there. When did we decide that looking half starved and in a constant state of surprise was the epitome of beauty?

Up until the early part of the twentieth century, the ideal female form was considered to be shapely, curvacious, soft. Artists like Cezanne, Degas, Klimt, and Renoir are just some examples of those who took up their brushes to proclaim that very idea. Not in any of their paintings would you be able to count a woman's ribs or think that she had her nose done. What they saw was so beautiful that they felt compelled to immortalize it on canvas.

Now, we immortalize things digitally and photoshop or airbrush away what is considered undesireable. We tell our little girls how pretty they are and then go out and buy them dolls with tons of makeup and minimal clothing and show them what pretty is "supposed" to look like, effectively negating any praise we've just given them. Where does it end? When will we decide that it's better to pass down a healthy respect for ourselves and the way we look, instead of our neuroses about an unachievable, and ultimately damaging, standard set by a silent consensus.

Who is to blame?

I am.

You are.

Everytime one of us looks in a mirror and sees what isn't there, instead of the amazing things that are, we put another nail in our own glass coffin. Everytime we look for approval between the pages of a glossy magazine; everytime we envy that celebrity who is starving herself and working out manically just to keep her job; everytime we search for self-worth through the eyes of a nation of surgically altered, over-beautified lemmings, we help to dig our own idealized graves. And we teach our girl's to do the same.
So what do we do to stop this vicious cycle?

Well, for starters, we need to stop letting the media tell us who we are and what we should look like.
Don't let them tell you that a size 8 is plus size.
Don't let them make you think that since you're preternaturally thin, you need to have a rack full of C-cups.
Don't let them tell you that your nose needs to look like a button, that your lips need to look like a swarm of bees attacked them, or that your eyebrows need to be up in your hairline.
Stop allowing them to manipulate what our standards of beauty should be.

If you have a gap in your teeth, smile all the wider.
If you have a big nose, know that sculptors revered women like you.
If you have wrinkles, know that every one of them tells a story of joy or sorrow.
If you have a flat chest, throw your shoulders back and stand proud.
If you've got curves, show the world that they are dangerous and sexy.

It's said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. No one beholding you is perfect. Doesn't it stand to reason, then, that beauty isn't perfect?
Embrace your imperfection.

And the next time you walk past a mirror, magic or otherwise, tell it to go crack itself.
You already know who's the fairest one here.