She Ain’t Dead, Just Got the Flu

by Sugar Johnson

Saturday afternoon sun, barely showing through the bedroom curtain of my Catholic godmother’s Parsons Blvd abode, found me adhering to the clap yo hand chants of the first hip hop song in my barely old school repertoire. A sound not too far down the street from the James Brown my brother used to test his dancing shoes across the kitchen floor, but it was fresh and I could relate. And like most people living an experience, I was unaware of the impact of participation. The movie “Brown Sugar” inquires the first heart throb this rebel music induced and for me it was “T.R.OY.” by Pete Rock and CL Smooth…I was always the late bloomer. Remembering the first time the thump made you turn it up was every classic’s trademark - songs about family, friends, goals and dreams in our language, our jargon, our attire, our terms. Squeezing itself between 80’s Top 40 play lists and granting urban communities what Marvin Gaye gave to our parents, a special kind of personal confirmation. Long before the necessary and unnecessary evils of the hood were romanticized, she was our bullhorn.

These days hip hop has ascended further than Ralph Cramden’s threatened destination for Alice. Large budgets, clothing lines, commercial endorsements and international exposure are now a mainstay in the culture that drives most others. But where are we going next? Like George Carlin’s observation of seemingly heightened human interaction, hip hop has more and does less. Mainstream marketing and our collective signature on the dotted line has turned underground art form to millennium mammy montage, even poetry is following suit.

Hip hop has secretly chosen the slum as her mate, ignoring her father’s wishes. Yeah, we put the ring on her finger but like most relationships money don’t mean a damn thing without love and affection. She stays at home while we run the streets in our fancy cars, nice clothes, hangin on corners starting trouble and drawing way too much attention from the cops. Time after time she comes to our aid, throwing her riches away only to be repeatedly slapped in the face with immature bravado. The potential she saw is far from what we’ve become. Chronic fatigue gnawing at her very essence, depleting what strength she has left. She ain’t dead, just got a bad case of the flu. Somebody, anybody, everybody, get your hands in the air, grab Mama’s favorite cup and bring her some tea…her children need her.

Check your boy out at www.afrostoshelltoes.com

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