When I got a line-up for two dollars back in 1998, Jay-Z, Nas, Pac, Biggie, DMX, plus Spragga Benz, Beanie Man, and the occasional Mary J. Blige augmented the talks at barbershops. Hip-hop is still talked about today, just in a different fashion. Our conversations have changed because its narrative has deviated. Rappers went from rapping about selling drugs to songs about doing them. It diverged from feigns to feigning. I still enjoy the conversations I have with my barber and his barber-friends and the folks sitting around waiting. But lately, I feel like we’ve missed the irony in our talks, both back then and now. 

We always shared stories about our culture but in between those cuts we slowly stopped asking ourselves, “what’s really good?” While keeping our hair tight we forgot to tease out messages and their messengers when it came to hip-hop. Instead we clinched our teeth and closed our eyes while our barbers slapped that blue barbicide liquid on the back of our necks and the fronts of our foreheads and down our cheekbones. Waiting for him to say to “next,” us barely looking at our heads in the mirror. We’ve done the same thing with our music.

Hip-hop requires that the gates for creativity be swung open, but that we also have our own gatekeepers that are willing to object to certain forms of the art. Folks who are able to separate the messenger from the message. A collective community that is willing to disregard certain tenors while validating other ones. If hip-hop music is simply retelling our stories, we need to interrupt these voices by having critical conversations about what is really going on in our communities. About, what’s really good? This is the function of hip-hop tv, radio, and podcast hosts. This is part of the function of the barbershop and barbers.  

Barbers and barbershops still resemble priests and cathedrals to me. And most folks still visit to get cultured and clean waves. When we validate certain music, we ought to be willing, at the least, to check and balance for a diverse word. Especially when we already know what happens with our Black males as a result of hip-hop. Especially when we already know, just like our hair styles, how important variety is. Especially when we already know, just like those hair clippers, how powerful of an instrument our music is in the battle for equity and liberation. 

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But why do I need my own teacher’s desk? The desk is one of schooling’s traditional markers of power. It is the sign and sight of the authoritative figure in the classroom. The ruler of the classroom kingdom owns that space and it should not be messed with. I’ve seen teachers lose their minds on students when students sit at the “teacher’s desk”. We shuffle kids in and out of spaces and try different groupings throughout the year, but when one student ventures into the forbidden territory of sitting at the teacher’s desk, many teachers freak out.

I used to be a teacher that cherished my invaluable teacher’s desk. I wouldn’t let kids sit there either. But then I realized that the teacher’s desk is just another obstacle that is impeding teacher-student relationships and classroom authenticity. When I was indifferent to students sitting and doing their work at my desk, I tangibly felt the power that such an object had on children. Students would vie to sit there during a lesson and then quietly do their work after. It became a site of privilege for students. This is because it is a site of privilege for teachers. The teacher’s desk allows teachers to sit and command from a distance. It fosters this idea of provisional self-esteem by signaling to the class that things may look like we’re promoting democracy but really things are running more like a dictatorship. I want the students who enter my classroom to realize that I truly am just the “lead learner” and next year I am going to start by helping them understand this through spatial transforming. And the first thing I had to do was get rid of my teacher’s desk.

Getting rid of my teacher’s desk does not mean that I am better than any other teacher. What it means to me is that I am checking (or acknowledging) my privilege as a teacher in the space of the classroom and in order to facilitate a more equitable classroom community for my students, erasing one of the pillars of that inequity is a step in the right direction. I am comfortable in my role as the head member in my classroom, and I don’t need a teacher’s desk anymore to signify that.

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I love you. You taught me so much. The first thing you, as a strong lady, taught me about was how to be a strong man. You taught me how to love. How to be compassionate. You taught me how to be strong. For that, I am forever indebted. I remember when you used to walk me to school. I was eight years old and didn’t want to hold your hand anymore. You allowed me that freedom. I remember when we used to walk home from the grocery store and when I was tired you would say, “Hold my hand son, I will give you strength.” And I actually felt the strength passing through from your palm and fingertips unto mine.

You used to tuck me into bed every night. And make sure I wasn’t scared of the dark. You made sure I was safe. When I was worried, I would yell, “Mom!” And you would say, “Yes Son, I’m right here. You okay?” I wouldn’t answer. You knew I was good. You don’t look the same to me laying in that hospital bed as you did when I think back to those days. But I remember so much.

I have accepted that this is life. Before you go into eternity, I hope you speak prior words to yourself. Keep the door open. Let the doctors treat you and let you come home – healthy and strong. When pops was going through his battle, you were there for him. You pushed on through his struggles. And through your love, everything was alright. So now, don’t cry. Be strong. Don’t shed no tears, but if you have to, shed them strong. And know, that I love you and I will always love you. For now and forever.

I feel Black. You married a Black man. You are white. You are me. But when I tried to grow my hair they never looked at it the same way as they did the other white boys in my class. They never said it, but I felt it, so I shaved my hair. I am a Black man, operating in the world that we live in. But I have a strong white woman who reads, edits and agrees with every last opinion that I espouse. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t go forward with my thoughts. That is how much I respect you. That is how much I love you.

You always kept me solid and consistent. Every little thing I did you supported. You asked questions, you wanted to know, you wanted to love. I felt the love always. These things I do now are because of you. Because I remember so much. Because I remember the love you gave me when you realized that I had my own path to venture on.

I am tired and exhausted. It is hard thinking about how much you mean to me with the realization that you might slip into eternity shortly. I shed tears every night. I want you to hold me forever and tell me that everything will be okay. I can’t do without you mother. That is the scary part. You are my rock.

Me and Tiny will try to be fine. We grew up together. Dad took us places you probably wouldn’t have approved of. He married a strong white lady who loved him until the end of time. And for that, he loved and loves you forever. But he’s hurting. His heart drips for you.

I pray that you fight. I pray that this illness will never rearrange your mentality and your wisdom. You are the strongest human being I will ever meet in my life. Your essence is greater than spirituality itself. With you, everything is alright. You are a God to me. Your melody is so true. I will not lose you. Not now, not ever. Forever more.

R.I.P.

Mom

Nov. 9^th 1950 – March 9^th 2015

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