lilD: Dear Hip-HopWritten by lilD | | firstname.lastname@example.org
My mother is on crack.
My father — who knows?
There are seven members of my family and we live in a two bedroom apartment in the ghetto. But I’m not complaining; I get to sleep on the good couch most nights.
As much as I want to hate my younger brother for selling crack, I understand it. We don’t always have enough to eat, and thanks to him, I haven’t missed a meal in two whole days.
This boy told me I was pretty. I thought he meant it — until he stopped coming by to see me after I gave him my virginity. I’ve been a born-again virgin five times now.
My life isn’t very pleasant, but when I put on my headphones and turn the music loud, all I hear is you. I don’t even think about all the times my uncle touched me, the hunger pains in my stomach, or the gunshots that seem like they’re getting closer and closer to my bedroom. When the bass pounds and the voices stream through my ears, everything in my world is okay. Hip-Hop, you saved my life.
But now, I think it’s time I asked you to save yourself. Did somebody hurt you? Were you betrayed? Why is it that you replaced the truth with a watered-down version of reality? Who’s going to tell my story if you don’t?
When I come to you, all I hear is someone teaching me a dance, or lying about how much money they have. I don’t have any money at all, but I have common sense. How did the people representing you get rich, and they have only released one song? Really? You got a brand new Bentley from one song?
Here’s the deal. I love you enough to tell you the truth. Yes, I like to dance sometimes. Dancing helps me forget about molestation and poverty. But I’m out of shape, so I can’t dance for too long before I realize that you’re not offering anything else anymore.
Queen Latifah said I was a strong woman “from infinity to infinity,” and Tupac told me to keep my “head up, legs closed, eyes open.” And my favorite, Lauryn Hill, told me that “some guys are only about that thing.” Oh, I know what that thing is now, and they don’t get it from me anymore.
But now some guy named Waka Flocka Flame is making “drug dealin’ music?” It’s my crack-dealing little brother’s favorite song. I know what’s happening here: you’re becoming a statistic.
People always tell me I won’t amount to anything because of where I come from. They say poor people stay poor, dumb stay dumb, and promiscuous girls turn into prostitutes. I know what they told you. You degrade women, glorify violence, and stomp on the very community that made you who you are. Public Enemy helped you “fight the power,” but now it seems you’re about to throw in the towel.
Don’t prove them right. Make them remember what Tupac said: “when they tell you you ain’t nothing, don’t believe them.”
I used to believe in you. I came to you for comfort. You reminded me that my life could get better, and now, I’m not so sure anymore.
I love you enough to tell you the truth. And the truth scares me. Help girls like me to remember that we can go to school, make good grades, and be proud of our accomplishments. I need that reminder. I need that confirmation. I need you, Hip-Hop.
Your biggest fan