Why I Don’t Fuck With Hip Hop:

Why I Don’t Fuck With Hip Hop:

I hate you then I love you and then I hate you again.

As a kid you had my back. We would chill everyday after school, on the weekends—just us. We learned all the dances, we wrote some raps, and we watched all the music videos. You told me:

“I know I can

I KNOW I CAN,

Be what I wanna be,

BE WHAT I WANNA BE,

If I work hard in it,

IF I WORK HARD IN IT,

I’ll be what I wanna be,

WHAT I WANNA BE”

We were tight. You understood me. I understand you. And I always had your back, even when everybody warned me about you.

Everybody told me that you would dog me out. That you hated me cause I was a girl with no ass. That you called me a bitch and a hoe. And I just didn’t believe them, cause you said I was down. That I was bout that life. I was one of your boys. I was your sis. 

I was 12 when you first disrespected me. 

I was at the flea market, walking around tryna find someone to spray paint my forces. I was out with my cousins, and not my momma. So the attention was a lot. You saw that nigga follow me around the whole flea, and you aint even say shit. When he smacked my ass, you didn’t even do shit. 

It’s like when I started growing titties, I revoked my card for protection and respect that comes with being one of your boys. I already had it hard, so why didn’t you care? And I wish you would fix your mouth to tell me something different, because all of a sudden, I became your bitch, yo hoe, and someone your momma didn't fuck with. 

I never thought you would treat me this way.

So don’t fuck with you.

And please don’t come at me saying I need you, because there will be me after you just as there was before you. I don’t need you to feel me. I don’t need you to back me up if I need to say something. 

Stop talking to my brother, and stay away from my little sister. 

I’m not playing with you.

My

Stories

Dear Ethel Waters,

As the musical director of His Eyes Were on the Sparrow, Darius Smith, and others before him, once said, “We need to tell our own stories.” This declaration rings true not only in the context of the play based on your life, Ethel, but our pursuit of art, our passions, and our lives in general. I was fortunate to have seen a play on your incredible life, which was beautifully portrayed by Ms.Maiesha McQueen. Throughout the play I couldn’t help but think, if you were sitting with us in the audience, how would you feel about your portrayal?  Or the fact that a play based on your life was written by a white man? You rightfully felt uncomfortable with white people and their treatment of people of color for majority of your life, so I cannot fathom, despite changes of the heart later in life, the feeling that a white man has a hand in telling your story. Yet, at the same time, I am grateful to have learned so much about you and your life through His Eyes Were on the Sparrow, and that the adaption exists. The play, as well as many of readings from “African American Women’s Lives” remind me that all of our histories are told through a lens and sometimes with bias.

My history classes from elementary to high school, from Texas, to Michigan, to Georgia, focused on white men, and were usually coupled with conservative views. The “African American Women’s Lives” course is unlike any other history class I’ve ever taken through its engaging content and discussion and by it being taught by Dr. Hobbs, an African American woman. Courses such as AAWL educate us on black women who’s stories are not commonly known and experiences specific to black women. Our stories should be shared to broader audience, and delivered by ourselves personally or people who can understand as much as possible (no one can truly walk in another’s shoes).  We need to be heard. To accomplish this, we need to educate ourselves and other people.  All the while, empowering others to tell their stories in every way possible, through literal storytelling, or  art or passions ranging from science to history. Ethel, your story empowered me to continue to work towards my goals and always advocate for what is right. I hope I can do the same for someone else.

Sincerely,

Sydney

Dear everything,

It is almost comical how often oppressed narratives are turned into stories of cross-cultural/racial allyship.

Although I certainly sympathized with Maiesha's efforts to remind us that minorities shouldn't keep their "rage inside" and should focus on connecting with others, even across racial boundaries, I still couldn't be convinced to love the fact that Ethel Waters's final song had to be about Billy Graham and his success in helping her find God. Though I don't want to completely reiterate what's already been said, I still wonder at this tension often debated in the art world between allowing one's audience to leave the theater content and "satisfied" with the work or alienating them, so that either feelings of guilt or the realization that things still need to change are invoked. It's the ultimate Brechtian vs. Stanislavskian question -- do happy endings create the very attitudes (more specifically, a blithe indifference to social matters) that we hope to subvert?

Well maybe the case is different for when working to paint a picture of Ethel Waters. Maybe the emphasis should not be so much on her struggle, but on her success. Did she (in the play) really need to centralize Graham as the vessel for her deliverance to God though???

I am still working out the answer in my head -- however, it seems, for now, there isn't an answer. What is so bad about emphasizing ally-ship? Larry Page certainly didn't see an issue there.

Sincerely,
Still in a state of confusion

To: Maiesha From: Tate

 

You said that you needed us in the audience on Sunday. I needed you. Your performance, and the larger opportunity to travel with my class; a diverse group of  black women, was exactly what I needed. As someone who has acted, and absolutely loves being a part of the theater. As a black woman from Atlanta. As a girl interested in the lives of the women who came before me. As all an amalgamation of all the things that make me, me: I have to thank you for your presence and your performance. I left our discussion with a full (not heavy) heart. While the play's writing was iffy at times, your performance never was. Your commitment, your dedication to your craft, your seemingly boundless energy, and, of course, your incredible talents in singing and acting truly told a story in a way that was honest, and real. I appreciated that you considered all of the complexities of the role, the writing, and the character, and your ability to reconcile them and be true to Ethel in the performance. Like I said, I needed that. You are an inspiration. It is so important to be validated. You provided all of us with that and I hope we were able to give that to you. I want you to know that I wanted to shout "sing it!" so many times during those musical numbers, they were honestly just so so good, but I didn't because of the largely white audience, and I can't imagine what that sort of cultural difference is like day in and day out. I don't know if I could do it honestly. To deliver such an emotionally exhausting and racially charged performance eight times a week, staring out at a sea of white faces, standing alone, is more than I can handle at the present moment. Living in a predominantly white freshman dorm is currently murdering my soul. This is part of the reason why Sunday was so important to me. I want to know how you maintain your sanity and find joy in the day to day. I want to know how you are dealing with the whiteness of Portland, and if playing Ethel has provided you with any new or helpful insights. And, again, I want to thank you just for being and existing and I especially want to thank you for creating and sharing. 

Ethel Waters

Dear Ethel Waters,

when i heard and read about your birth, the circumstances that lead you to become the 

person you wanted to be, the question that arises in my head is did you ever feel unwanted? Were you constantly burdened, overwhelmed by constantly feeling unwanted? A thirteen year old mother who wasn't ready to take care of you. A father who brutalized your mother. You were born from hatred. How did you do it, overcome feeling unwanted, because it monopolizes every aspect of my life. It runs me into the ground. i wonder why you married at thirteen, at the same age your mother was raped and had you. i wonder why you married someone abusive, but he must not have always been that way. I wonder if it all stemmed from feeling unwanted and if it too ate at you from the inside out. If you too tucked yourself into bed hoping tomorrow will be the day that you finally realize your self-worth.

That ending though...

Dear Ms. Waters,

His Eye is On the Sparrow was a fantastic show that did a great job honoring you, until the last five minutes.

It went through every stage of your life from your childhood to your “epiphany” with Billy Graham in the later years of your life. The reason why I put quotes around the word epiphany is because I simply cannot believe you had such an epiphany. It was basically you realizing that you’ve been a racist thanks to a conversation you had with Pastor Graham on the color of God.

The problem that I had with that is the incorrect use of the word racist. The definition of a racist is someone who believes that one particular race is superior to other races. In no way did the performance ever show evidence of you saying anything to the extent of black people are superior to white people. The only thing that the show portrayed you to be guilty of was making generalizations about all white people based off experiences you had with some of them. These were not out of prejudice; they were founded upon actual experiences. Also, these were not said in an effort to make black people superior to white people. From my perspective, they were said out of self-preservation. You were afraid of what happened with the nasty club owner happening again, which is totally rational.

So, for the playwright to have your character say that you're a racist in the finishing remarks of this show was completely uncalled for and incorrect. For this, he should make a public apology.

Sincerely,

Ruthie Lewis

Shattered Mirrors

Dear Mr. Parr,

Yesterday evening, I travelled to see His Eye Is On The Sparrow in Portland, Oregon with a group of other Stanford students. This was a trip for our class, African-American Women's Lives, and I was fascinated to see what a "musical bio" was. I've been in and seen musicals, plays, stage readings, and other performances of questionable classifications, but never a "musical bio." Once the show started, I realized a "musical bio" is basically a play with singing dispersed between scenes, however, I no longer found myself focusing on the classification of performance. I was, instead, enraptured with the story. In hindsight, I think that is more so due to the realistic and entrancing performance of Maeisha McQueen, but she still needed a text to interpret and portray.

While many of my classmates, myself included, found themselves doubtful of and blatantly questioning the intentions and purposes of the shows conclusion, I find a broader concept occupying my thoughts. I've been conflicted by my reviews that I've been giving the show to everyone that asks me, "How was it? Was it good?" My forehead promptly begins to ache as I cough up a sharp chuckle and prepare to separate hydrogen and oxygen atoms with a spoon.

Here is my dilemma Mr. Parr. Seven-eighths of your show were captivating and beautifully written. As I said earlier, I was absorbed in the story that you wrote and fascinated by the way you chose to string together the events of Ethel Water's life. However, the, approximately, final 5 minutes shattered the hypnotic state that I was in. Aside from the content of events, the language and writing suddenly seemed inorganic and disconnected from that which was previously used. The moments seemed rushed, as if cut and paste from the original draft of a paper that was due in 5 minutes, so you didn't have time to read over it and make sure it was cohesive. The story just didn't seem "Ethel" anymore.

With all of that being said, I have a question for you that is simple, in phrasing but complex in the requirements of its answer. I would like to say that there is not a "right" answer, but in light of the fact that you are a white male that has created a trilogy of shows about the lives of African-American women in show business, there is.

How do you perceive black women?

I haven't seen your other shows, and was actually quite surprised to learn that they existed intentionally and in relative conjunction with one another. I don't know your intentions for the show's conclusion, the original or the edited version, and apparently neither do the actress or the music director. I don't know you personally. The only things I have to go off of are the words you wrote, and quite frankly, those aren't enough. You give yourself, what appears to be a pat on the back, when having Ethel ask about what a white man would know about the struggles of a black woman and if they are capable of retelling those experiences since they have none.

I don't want to invalidate your entire show, or Ms. McQueen's beautiful performance, because of a controversial ending. Yet I find myself with those thoughts because this is a moment that needs context and clarification. I keep asking if this show would be running if a black man or woman had written it. I wonder who gave you the right to attempt to recount the story of a black woman's struggle and if I should just accept the fact that at least you had the interest to actually write the show at all.

This is the complex reality of an intellectually and socially engaged individual, more specifically that of a black woman in theater. I would greatly appreciate if you could answer my question with as much thought and introspection as possible.

Thank you,
Morgan-Me'Lyn Grant