sagaciously is...

shouts out to dParrish for forcing me to think & write about this, when I'd written the whole thing off. I'd declared this love affair to be over. Seems I can never say never...

so, when did you fall in love with hip-hop?:: when I was 11 years old. Growing up hood-rich, semi-bougie and sheltered,possessing the language skills of an 18-yr-old white adult, I was incredibly naive about my own "culture". Or lack thereof. I wasn't allowed to watch the Jeffersons or Good Times, my father fearing that I'd socially "regress" and be unable to navigate the "white man's world"'. I lusted after Sean Cassidy, had a subscription to Tiger Beat, my favorite song was "Da Do Run Run", and I longed for blonde-haired, blue-eyed status, so Peter Frampton would notice me. Forget that I was a chubby lil black girl, who was a coupla years ahead of herself in school, bussed to a 'gifted' school, and didn't realize what the word "nerd" meant. Until...

My cousins kidnapped me, so to speak. It was dusk, during the summer of 1977. I remember us walking around the corner (really was like 4 miles) without them telling me exactly where we were going. Past bodegas, past houses, past the rec center, past my school, past my limited knowledge of my neighborhood. As we walked, it grew darker, the streetlights popped on, and I knew I was in for the a$$-whoopin' of my life. I figured I may as well make the most of it. So we kept on walking, now down this dark neighborhood street, and suddenly...

the bob fosse moment:: Light, and brown bodies in motion. Gyrating and sweating, and lost in the throes of this...beat... da-da-doomp. Faster: da-da-doomp pause, then again da-da-doomp pause, faster, then again: da-da-doomp...da-da-doomp...da-da-doomp, doomp-de-doomp-doomp-doomp-doomp-de-doomp-doomp-doomp "Good times...these are the good times..." Speakers so big the were making the street shake. It all looked like a Bob Fosse movie to my virgin eyes. Then, my cousin Tink (3rd, by marriage only) who would later be my first love, dragged me out to the middle of the street to dance, and...I got lost in it. Lost in the moment, lost in the beat, lost in the wonderful brown-ness of it, lost in something that was ours, and ours alone. I did the NY Freak before I knew what the dance actually was called, and I became black. Not by genes, or nurture, but by something that was inherently ours.

This was hip-hop. Two turntables and earthquake speakers, a DJ and a party. This was black, to me. I was in love.

the a$$-whoopin of my life:: Mid-NY-freak-stroke, my mama showed up. I remember her snatching me up outta there by my collar, and dragging me the 4 miles home by it, alternately fussing at me directly, and warning me how my daddy was gonna react when he found out I was hanging with them "hoodrat" cousins of mine. It didn't matter. Nothing could erase the satisfied smile on my face on the way home. See, I could dance, and that shocked the shyt outta my cousins. Remember, I was the fat, smart one. The geeky one. So, when they saw I could dance better than them, they had a new respect for me. The a$$-whoopin of my life was well-earned, and more than worth it. My mama beat me all the way home, and while the embarassment was pretty intense, I smile internally with every stroke.

aside:: technically, I got the worst a$$-whooping of my life once when my daddy (after learning mama had to work a double) tried to force me to eat a dinner of Chef-Boyardee Ravioli with canned String Beans, and I stuffed some string beans under my mamas good lace tablecloth. I couldn't sit down for days afterward. I didn't eat string beans for 15 years after that. Oh shaddup - I'm a Taurus, remember?

puppy love:: I spent the rest of the summer, going to block parties, dancing my 11-yr-old a$$ off, and hanging out with hip-hop. Oh yeah, and my puppy love, Tink. But really, it was me and hip-hop, holding hands, him setting it off so I could show off my dancing skills, him making those earthquake speakers tremble. I loved that feeling, walking up on a crowd of people, "Good Times" blaring from the speakers, the DJ pulling the record back, extending the song until it seemed like it would never end, and giving me more time to do my thang. Hip-hop made me feel like I belonged, but more than that, hip-hop made me feel like I could - fly. Soar. Shine. I could be better than I was. I could do anything, if I wanted it bad enough. I loved hip-hop for that, before there were MC's, and graffiti artists, and breakdancers, and human beatboxes. There was the beat, the DJ and that's all hip-hop needed to exist. And I loved him for that.

coming: part II - the evolution of our love affair, and how we fell out of love.