The Force

How could Hip Hop possibly be dead?!
It’s a force. It’s energy.
A force that began in a land where drums talked and warriors danced.
An energy propelled from strife, oppression and power.
Energy cannot be destroyed. It keeps moving, transferring from vessel to vessel.

Like everyone else, I worry about the next generation of Hip Hoppers. I wonder whether enough of them would be able to see through the smoke screen of bullshit and touch and experience the healing, empowering force of this culture.

A few weeks ago I went to this event called “The Gathering”. This monthly, all ages party, aims to represent Hip Hop in it’s totality; Bboyin, Mcin, Graf writing, Djin. Aside from the fact that I met a really cute brotha there (Score!) this was the dopest get together I had been to in a long while. The energy in the room was kickin! On the stage, the DJ spun vinyl and the Bboys responded with some of the sickest break dancing moves I’ve seen in a long time. One side of the room was breakdancin while the other side got it in with poppin and lockin. Their was a huge wall strictly for tagging. The host, announced the open mic and a sick cipher ensued, 6-7 dudes on the stage, freestylin. They were ill with it, each one pickin up the flow where the other one left off. They were totally vibin. The Bboys popped. Locked and postured . I felt as if I had been transported to a time decades past. One kid would get on the linoleum and do his thing, get up, look his opponent up and down, flexin in his face. Next. Bboy crews sprang up, Flashback to the days of Rock Steady Crew. Kick, jump, spin… Pose.

“A lot of people think [we are] a bunch of rowdy ghetto heathen thugs -No. No. What we are, are oppressed.”

Two poppers face off. A skinny Black kid in camouflage and an Asian kid in a jersey and cap. The Asian kid’s moves have won over the crowd. The brotha next to me says, “Yea, he’s definitely hot but don’t forget, we Black, we was born with this shit, ya’ll had to learn it.” Word. I was so struck by this comment I had to write it down. Homie had encapsulated everything I’d been feeling that night. The Gathering was diverse, everyone was represented; Asians, Latinos, Whites, Blacks. And most of them were damn good. But none of them had what the Black kids had. None of them had the force. When the other folks danced, though it looked fresh, it also looked learned. When the black kids danced it was organic. Like they came out the womb spinning on their backs and doing the snake. An innate spirit fighting to come to the surface.

“This is not just a bunch of people acting wild, it’s an art form. It’s just as valid as your ballet as your waltz as your tap dance except we didn’t have to go to school for this it was already implanted in us… from birth.”

I realized then that Hip Hop can’t be dead, it can’t be killed. This force has been and will continue to pass through the generations of young people yet to come. The way I see it, Hip Hop dying is equivalent to our annihilation. It won’t happen. It’s indestructible, as are we, it’s part of our DNA. Is it what it was during it’s so called “prime” in the late 80’s to mid 90’s? No. Of course not. It has transformed, but so have we. I’m no longer afraid for the future generations. They will pick it up and they will run with it. They/it/we will survive. It’s all we know how to do.

“This is our ghetto ballet, this is how we express ourselves, this is the only way that we see fit of story telling. The only way of making ourselves feel like we belong.”