Who you callin’ a ho?

Long before I knew better, I fell in love with hip-hop.

This relationship has had its share of dysfunction. Many years have been spent reconciling some of our differences in various venues, classrooms, seminars and other institutions. It is in my womanhood, though, that the bond has never been stronger.

I am more at ease than ever with Too $hort calling anything with more than one x chromosome a bitch. I now enjoy the grit of gangster rap more than ever. And even though, as a woman, much of this grit occurs at my expense, my bond with this sub-genre will only continue to grow. And yours should too.

Establishing a definition of gangster rap is an issue even more debated upon than its misogyny. For the sake of cohesion, however, a brief definition is needed for this defense.

Only artists up to a certain point in time will be called upon. The year that Doggy Dogg became Dogg in his downward spiral to selling out/entrepreneurship. The year Dr. Dre declared gangster rap dead. The year of 1996.

The conversation of what this definition encompasses has been occurring within pioneers since the term and subgenre were created; those who merely like listening to gangsta shit are no authority. Rather than establishing what it is, let us view the words of The Genius himself, regarding what it is not:

“Our music is not ‘gangsta rap’. There’s no such thing. The label was created by the media to limit what we can say. We just deliver the truth in a brutal fashion.…We attack people’s emotions. It’s a real live show that brings out the inside in people,” said GZA of Wu-Tang Clan.

So why should an educated, unified population of women allow their emotions to be attacked by the boys club that is gangster rap? Well, sisterhood for starters.

This solidarity is the first step in the right direction, and achieving it under such an oppressive sphere of artistic expression only makes our foundation stronger. Social activist bell hooks wrote her first book, “Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism” about rising above the internalized sexism to which a patriarchal society often contributes to.

“We did not bond against men, we bonded to protect our interests as women” hooks shared. For women to acknowledge the small army of rappers claiming “we don’t love these hos” is to refute feeble attempts to divide and conquer and, above all, remain unified.

Gangster rap becomes really interesting when conflicting points of view glorifying and denoting the lifestyle come into play. The duality between the two can resemble the fiction versus nonfiction debates that happen in literature analysis. Chuck D once called rap music “the black CNN,” documenting a lifestyle that, for better or worse, can be very real.

This is the part when, in all humility, I admit there is a level of distance in my admiration of hip-hop. Nas reminisces, “When I was 10, I was a hip-hop a shorty wop, known for rockin’ microphones and twistin’ off a 40 top.”

When I was 10, I was playing with dolls. GZA’s claim that his music shows “the inside of people” could be addressing one of two concepts in Jungian psychology: the “self,” and the “shadow.” Either of these concepts could aid a hesitant gangster rap listener in navigating through lyrics.

In short, the self is the complementary duality between oneness, and everything outside of it. Jean Bolen, author of “Goddesses in Everywoman: A New Psychology of Women” shared, “At this spiritual level, ‘connecting’ and ‘detachment’ are the same.” Applying this duality to gender could transcend confining gender roles, among other things gangster rap is often guilty of.

The shadow in Jungian psychology is responsible for some incredible art, including musical project Gorillaz. The idea of the shadow is made up entirely of repressed projections, fears and instincts. The basic knowledge of artists’ lives coupled with listening to their lyrics provides an opportunity to indulge in your own shadow and learn more about theirs.

Ol’ Dirty Bastard (RIP) battled with fears and distrust very outwardly throughout his entire career. His popular track featuring Kelis, “Got Your Money,” is the antithesis of his adult life, as he supported his children and upon his death left behind his wealth split seven ways between them.

If nothing more, gangster rap has stimulated discussion around gender that has helped shape new views of both femininity and masculinity. Though these issues, 15 years later, are still in existence, a public that talks about them regularly is progress.

Peppered in the contemporaries that are getting worse (in quality) are men and women dedicated to the evolution of hip-hop. Perhaps if it wasn’t for Beastie Boys’ request to “butter your muffin, I’m not bluffing’/serve you on a platter like Thanksgiving stuffin’,” the game changers of 2012 would not have been inspired to come forward in response.

What it really comes down to is personal preference. What brings anger and discomfort to some may send chills through another. While I may sing along to a certain storyteller’s call to “treat her like a prostitute,” there are not enough grains of salt in the world to get my foot tapping to Brotha Lynch Hung. There is some artistic intent I will never agree with—not on this side of the earth. Which, coincidentally, is what Brotha Lynch Hung may prefer.

In a list of what academia cannot infiltrate, hip-hop is in the top five. There is something intangible about the experience it provides, and academia will never construct the appropriate lens to get an honest look at it. By the time they do, it may be a lost language, graffiti like hieroglyphics, b-sides buried in time capsules.

Perhaps that’s how the visionaries would have preferred it.