“even some rap”

The poetry workshop started with an icebreaker. The class took turns saying their names, hometowns, and poetic influences. Daryhl. Ypsilanti, Michigan. ’90s East Coast rap because I love effortlessly intricate rhyme schemes paired with vivid storytelling. The white woman who answered after me commented that music also inspires her poetry—even some rap.

It was the way she said it. Even some rap. As if rap was barely music, let alone poetry. As if the only worthwhile rap was rap that she approved of. As if her opinion on Black art—which is representative of the Black experience—actually held weight. Even some rap. As if rap is the cocoon that could turn into something beautiful. As if it isn’t already the butterfly. As if it hasn’t been that way since the ’80s. 

I wanted to ask what she meant by that—even some rap—but a voice in my head convinced me to let it go. Not the voice that’s ready for war whenever white people pull something slick. The other voice. The one that’s tired of pushing back against every microaggression because six years at PWIs can drain the fight right out of you. The voice that’s too concerned about seeming like the pissed off, hypersensitive, Black man to speak on what’s actually bothering me. The voice that sacrifices my own comfort to avoid making the workshop awkward for my classmates.[1]

[1] Listening to this voice makes me feel terrible. One night, I stopped by the grocery store on my way home from class to grab food for that night and the next morning. The cashier that rang me up was an older white woman. There was a lot of small talk before she asked what sort of writing I do. I responded that I write mainly poetry and nonfiction. She mentioned how impressed she was by the poet who spoke at Biden’s inauguration—Amanda Gormon. The cashier thought Amanda’s poetry was beautiful, but she was more impressed by Amanda’s classiness because it’s a quality that the youth lacks. That’s why she was so impressed by people like Barack and Michelle Obama, John Lewis, and Martin Luther King Jr. The cashier went on to complain about the Black girls that come into the store, and how their nails and hair look nice, but on the inside they’re just nasty. I knew my facial expression changed drastically in response to her comments because she asked if I disagreed with something she said. I wanted to tell her that all Black people—especially Black Women—deserve respect regardless of how “classy” they are because of respectability politics and because her ideas of Black women being “unclassy” are heavily rooted in racist stereotypes that date back to slavery. The more I tried to get my thoughts together, the more my internal voices competed with one another. I wanted the cashier to know that she was on bullshit, but I was exhausted from a three-hour workshop and the loneliness of being Black on the north side of Chicago. I spent the rest of the night, week, and semester trying to convince myself that it really wasn’t worth it.

“Why do you want an MFA?”

1. Because white institutions won’t take me or my work seriously without a stamp of approval from another white institution.

2. Because I need to level the playing field with white writers who only have undergraduate degrees. [2]

3. Because I need to be a resource for aspiring Black writers on their MFA journey and teach creative writing from a more Afrocentric perspective. [3]

4. Because I refuse to walk away from my experience as a Black student in a predominantly white writing program without the highest possible compensation.[4]

Because there aren’t nearly enough Black people with MFAs.

[2] We’ve got to be twice as good in order to get half as far.

[3] My ideal graduate writing workshop looks like a Black studies course, but with more writing. It’s a workshop that allows writers to confide in, complain to, care for, laugh with, and empower one another every time they step into the classroom because participants view each other as community instead of competition. A workshop where the professor goes above and beyond to ensure that writers from marginalized communities understand how to navigate and take up space, both in class and in the publishing industry.

[4] I said “highest possible compensation” instead of “proper compensation” because we’ve spent the past 156 years fighting for proper compensation. An MFA is compensation because it’s the least an institution can do. Proper compensation would be access and exposure to resources that have historically been denied to us, opportunities within the publishing industry that set us up to succeed, positions within academia that allow us to enact meaningful change, and an MFA—but you know they’re not trying to give us all that.

The Riot Never Stopped

The whitest advice a writing professor can give is telling Black students to put anything on the page in order to finish a draft. White writers don’t need to think before they write because they’ve always been allowed to write whatever they want. White people are masters of putting things wherever they please—coffee shops and yoga studios in place of community centers and barber shops, BLM signs where Black people aren’t allowed to live, crack in Black neighborhoods, federal informants in liberation movements, etc. That same careless entitlement also extends to their writing. However, our relationship to the page is a lot different from our white peers.

The page is sacred for us because it’s one of the few places where we’re able to say whatever we want. It’s a place where we can speak to ourselves, and to one another, without white people interjecting or overhearing.  Most importantly, it’s a place where we can craft beautiful works about our experiences without feeling like we’re tap dancing for white people.

A lot of us are careful about what we write because there’s a long history of our words being used against us. We learned to say what we mean and mean what we say because our ancestors didn’t have the opportunity to misspeak. Black people still get lynched over language, so every syllable still feels like a life-or-death decision. This idea of life-or-death language also exists within the publishing industry. Willingness to assimilate—writing in “standard English” and telling stories that follow Eurocentric storytelling techniques and structures—directly impacts how a Black writer’s work will fare in the industry.[5]

We’re forced to abandon pieces of our identity for our work to be better understood by white workshop participants who aren’t willing to do the same thing for us. The page is my opportunity to combat the linguistic and cultural erasure perpetuated by MFA programs because the page is where the riot lives. The same riot that started back when Phillis Wheatley became the first Black author to publish a book of poetry. I can’t put just anything on the page because the words of my ancestors were powerful enough to shake the foundations of oppressive institutions and inspire future generations of Black writers. I believe that same level of power and intention should exist in every syllable I write because anything less would be a disservice to every Black writer that came before me.  

[5]White writers who refuse to conform are electrifying, innovative, and unapologetic. Black writers who refuse to conform are unskilled, unprofessional, and unintelligent. It doesn’t help that the publishing industry is whiter than a Grateful Dead concert. It’s another industry that wants Black voices but not Black people. They waive submission fees for Black writers and beg us to share our stories, but it’s all for show. Most of those opportunities are going to white writers because white writing makes white editors comfortable. The few Black writers they accept are ones that put white people at ease by breaking down Blackness in a way that’s easily digestible for them—putting our trauma on display, reinforcing their preconceived notions of us, etc.  Sometimes dope Blacks writers manage to break into the industry, but they’re put on a tight leash when they do. White writers get six-figure advances for their debut work. We might get 15k—and that’s if we’re lucky. That’s how much Roxane Gay got for her debut collection even though she was hotter than Jay Electronica after he dropped “Exhibit C.” They undervalue our work every chance they get but still have the audacity to ask why there aren’t more Black people in the publishing industry.

My Advice 2 Black MFA Students

1. There’s no correct way to write, so tell stories in a way that’s authentic to you. That’s what makes your writing special. Don’t dim your light in order to “write conventionally” because conventional writing wasn’t constructed with us in mind. It’s okay to create writing that sounds like you, feels like you, and speaks to your community. 

2. The difference between a successful writer and unsuccessful writer is confidence. Remind yourself daily that your work is incredible. Write “You’re a great writer! Stop doubting yourself!” on Post-it notes and stick them to your bathroom mirror. Read them accidentally when you use the bathroom, brush your teeth, or look at old selfies. Read them intentionally whenever you doubt your talent. That’s what I did, and those Post-it notes gave me the confidence I needed to make it through the first year of my MFA program.

3. Read as little—or as much—as you need.[6] Write as infrequently—or frequently—as you need.[7] Always do what works for you instead of what’s supposed to work for you. These institutions were not built with us in mind. We’re navigating these spaces and relaying our experiences to the next generation of Black writers in real time, so don’t be afraid to experiment with your approach. Experimentation is an important step in creating the blueprint for Black writers hoping to navigate predominantly white MFA programs.  

4. Don’t be afraid to shake the table. Call out classmates when their stories include racist tropes. Correct professors when they misinterpret your work, and question why most of their assigned reading is written by old white men. Ask your program director what’s being done to address the lack of nonwhite faculty and apply pressure by following up consistently. Never let their lack of institutional support scare you into submission because, whether they like it or not, we belong here too.

5. Remember to take breaks whenever writing becomes too stressful. Walk in the park, paint a picture, smoke a blunt, play some basketball, listen to records, or anything else that gets you outside of your head. Writing can be mentally taxing—especially at the end of the semester when you feel like you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel for inspiration. It’s important to give your mind both the time and permission to think about nothing.   

6. Writing doesn’t need to be universally accessible. Professors will suggest that your work revolving around Blackness finds as many readers as possible because it “should reach a broader audience.” That’s their polite way of asking “but what if white readers don’t understand?”[8] They want Blackness in a way that’s easier for white people to digest: break down more cultural references, put more trauma on the page, and write with more personality without using Black English. White people demand us to consider them in our writing while refusing to consider us in theirs—don’t fall for it.  Always write for your intended audience.

7. Don’t let white professors and classmates dissuade you from pursuing an idea that you genuinely believe in. White people aren’t always going to understand your vision if it doesn’t align with the work of their Favorite Contemporary Black Writer[9] or one of the Harlem Renaissance writers. Always advocate for yourself and clearly state the vision you have for your writing. Self-definition is vital for us because our work is constantly misinterpreted due to white people’s limited exposure to both Black writing and Black people.

8. Writing is more fun when you view your peers as collaborators instead of competition because you’re no longer focused on their flaws. Viewing peers as collaborators allows you to truly see strength in their writing, as well as your own. Don’t let academia trick you into believing that you have do everything by yourself. It’s okay to chill with your classmates outside of class, work on writing together, and check on each other. Building community is the easiest way to prevent these white institutions from sucking all the fun out of writing.

9. Publication doesn’t define a good writer. This is especially true for Black writers existing within this overwhelmingly white industry.[10] You’re going to see a disproportionate number of rejections when submitting to journals and magazines, but rejection doesn’t mean that you’re not an incredible writer. Rejection means that one publication—out of fifty leven different publications in existence—passed on your work.  Never stop submitting. It’s only a matter of time until your writing is housed by a publication that understands your vision and truly sees the value in your work.[11]

10. Be yourself. You don’t need to perform for classmates and professors. It’s okay to admit when you don’t know something just like it’s okay to change your mind when presented with new information. And don’t get caught up in trying to use the most convoluted, inaccessible language to discuss writing. Using your everyday voice is important because it’s the easiest way to make sure nothing gets lost in translation.

[6] Read whatever you want. Develop your own canon. Don’t feel pressured to read the classics or books by big name authors—Black or white. For example, you can check out books written by people in your immediate community. Icons like Toni Morrison and James Baldwin are important but being lesser known doesn’t make a writer’s message any less important. Drawing inspiration from a multitude of different sources is what pushes writing forward and prevents stagnation.

[7] Please don’t let these white people be the reason you’re working yourself like a machine to write 2,000 words a day. 

[8] That’s the point.

[9] Favorite Contemporary Black Writer (FCBW): “One of the good ones.” White professors will mention this writer while workshopping any writing related to Blackness. This writer always breaks down Blackness in a way that is easily digestible for white people and includes white people in the conversation. This writer occasionally defies white conventions, but never in a way that strays too far from the status quo. Professors want your writing to mimic their FCBW because, in their opinion, that’s what good Black writing is.

[10] Self-publishing is an option too. Who cares if they don’t want us in the industry? We’ll break the door down like Master P selling CDs out of car trunks and Smack capturing early 2000s hip hop culture through SMACK DVDs. 

[11] Reread the Post-it notes on your bathroom mirror if you struggle with self-doubt after a string of rejections. 

Writing Workshop Blues (Make Me Wanna Holler)

I hate writing workshops because I hate the idea of white people discussing the way I use language.[12] I hate staying silent as they tear apart—and misunderstand—my work. I hate that white students have the authority to discuss the way I tell stories despite the fact that they’re often ignorant to every aspect of Black culture that inspires my writing.  I hate that I have to spell out every cultural reference because white people feel too privileged to use context clues. I hate their assumptions that I care about my work being widely accessible.[13] I hate when they say my work feels relatable because I'm afraid that relatable means whitewashed. I hate that I can't tell if they only like my work because they don’t understand it. I hate that I can’t tell if they only dislike my work because they don’t understand it. I hate that I’m expected to code switch in my writing, and I hate the reaction I get whenever I decide not to. My refusal to code switch isn’t an example of me “speaking in an ‘urban’ voice to create a more relatable and likable narrator that draws readers in.” I refuse to code switch because there aren’t enough narrators that sound like me. I hate that none of my classmates see that. I hate being one of the only Black people in the room, and I hate being the only Black person in the room even more. I hate feeling like the only person that notices the power imbalance. I hate using stale academic language to comment on classmate's work. I hate being forced to find flaws in a draft that I really enjoy. I hate writing professors who pride themselves on their red pen because nobody should take that much pride in being a hater. I hate that a lot of us hate workshop in private but are afraid to speak up because speaking up means workshops filled with awkward silences, devil’s advocates, and classmates thinking we’re too sensitive. I hate that we’ve been conditioned to prioritize their comfort over our own, and I hate feeling like I’m the only person that cares about making writing workshops more inclusive for marginalized writers.

[12] This sentence originally said that I don’t like the idea of white people telling me anything about anything—especially not the way I use language. I changed it because I thought it sounded too mean for the main essay.

[13] Easy for white people to understand.

A Mixtape of Inspirations & Influences  

1. “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst”—Kendrick Lamar

2. The infectious confidence of rappers in the studio immediately after recording a hit.

3. “Solitude of Enoch”—Ka 

4. The unparalleled passion of a Baptist preacher bouncing around the pulpit during the climax of an Easter sermon.

5. “They School”—Dead Prez

6. The feelings of pride, belonging, and empowerment born from taking my first Black studies course.

7. “Yesterday”—Noname 

8. The Jadakiss laugh. 

9. “Eternal Sunshine (The Pledge)”—Jay Electronica

10. The sight of Black people doing mundane activities like buying coffee, barbecuing at the park, or asking for directions.

11. “We Almost Lost Detroit”—Gil Scott-Heron

12. MF DOOM using obscure cartoon and movie samples to craft an elaborate, fictional, universe.

13. “Be Real Black for Me”—Roberta Flack & Donny Hathaway

14. The way we use eye contact to communicate racial solidarity in predominantly white spaces.

15. “My Advice 2 You”—Gang Starr

16. “Sistah Souljah press conference slamming Bill Clinton’s attack in 1992” 

17. “We’re Talking About a Revolution”—Tracey Chapman

18. The way our language still shines despite centuries of demonization and appropriation.

19. “Poet”—Sly & The Family Stone

20. The overwhelming sense of community when other Black graduate students confess that they’re also struggling.

“What kind of writer are you?”

How can I categorize my writing when so much of my work is inspired by nontraditional sources that aren’t even taken seriously by white professors and classmates?[14] Academia shoves white European writers down our throats and expects Black writers to categorize ourselves within a system we can’t see ourselves in. They don’t understand that the legitimacy of white European writing is based on relegating nonwhite writing to the margins. They don’t want to admit that battle rap teaches how to write to an audience, pair vivid imagery with intricate wordplay, and craft complex rhyme schemes. Or that ’90s East Coast rap teaches the importance of honest and authentic storytelling, having fun while writing, and conveying complicated thoughts using everyday language.  

I never understood white people’s irrepressible desire to categorize themselves because that wasn’t something I experienced growing up. Most of the people I grew up around were multihyphenates,[15] and maybe that has something to do with our ancestors being denied the opportunity to accumulate generational wealth. We refuse to box ourselves in because we don’t want to miss an opportunity to make it—if you stay ready you ain’t gotta get ready.

White professors that assume I’ve labeled myself also assume that labels function the same for all writers, regardless of color. For their work, the function of a label is to categorize and group similar writing together. For our work, the function of a label is to keep our writing separate from theirs. It’s pointless to label ourselves because they’ll move our work into a different category as soon as they realize it might surpass theirs. They’ve been pulling this same trick for years. That’s how our literature becomes African American literature, our pop becomes urban contemporary, and our poetry becomes rap. 

[14] “—even some rap.”

[15] Greg is the first person that comes to mind. He’s the owner of Anointed Cuts—a barber shop that he also uses to sell clothes, jewelry, and fragrances. However, it doesn’t end there because Greg is also a reverend. He spends his weekends preaching at Fresh Start Church—a church he started back in 2007 that now has two locations. I watch him juggle cutting hair, selling t shirts, and conducting church business every time I come in for a fade.

Jadakiss Freestyle (He Goes In)

The video fades into a chest-up shot of Jadakiss at an unnamed radio station. He’s got headphones on and a microphone suspended in front of his face. The beat drops and Jada shouts that you already know because I already do. His voice was made for hip-hop—confident and raspy as hell. There aren’t too many rappers in the game that can freestyle like him, and he’s about to prove it.

I’ll tell you this much, hip-hop is not dead.

Change gon come just like Barack said.

Money, Power, Respect like The Lox said.

‘You’ll be the man of the house,’ my pops said.

Now you can picture me rollin, like Pac said.

Do it for the inmates and all of the hotheads.

Heat the streets up right quick, it’s all timin.

Gucci everything, Sierra Leone Diamonds. Tell you this—.

Jada stumbles.

This ain’t even a rap, it’s a controlled substance—.

He stumbles again. I’d be worried if Jada were any other rapper, but I know better than to doubt the man that dropped The Champ is Here and Kiss of Death in the same year.

 Jadakiss is ready to rap again when the host interjects that he’s allowed to curse. He repeats the information in disbelief before attacking the beat again.

Head-on-head collision, I’m a problem.

& nobody can solve em, I’m long division.

On the road of success, but it’s more of a mission.

They said I would be dead or I was goin to prison.

He’s got everything I want in a freestyle. Punchlines, multis, internal rhymes, and sustained schemes. Every bar takes Jada further and further from Earth and validates his bold declaration on the “Made You Look” remix—he really is top five dead or alive.

Jadakiss freestyles like it’s easier than speaking, and for him that’s probably true. Every bar Jada spits is punctuated by an ad lib because not even the host can contain his excitement. It’s beautiful to watch a legend get his flowers in real time.

Nowadays it’s different & I was fortunate

cause I did a lot of listenin, the new era is missin it.

Everybody 357 & four fif’in it.

Drugs program –  two to four, three to six’in it.

Jada’s head bobs alongside each bar as proof that he’s finally caught stride.  There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he plans to rap until the host cuts the beat, but I still get goosebumps when I hear & you can't stop because it confirms that he’s still got more in the chamber.

Jada’s second verse is not only his victory lap, but also his fastest lap.

A lot of niggas lost they pops to the drug game,

other niggas lost they blocks when the thugs came.

They knew how to box, but ain’t know bout the slug game.

As soon the money get right, that’s when the love change

Jada makes it clear from the beginning that, unlike his competition, he really can stand the test of time. That’s why he confidently declares himself as both the cornerstone of the corner store and the D-Block general. No claim feels too outlandish—not when he’s spitting like this. Jada’s dope really is strong enough to give fiends hiccups just like he really does say grace before giving niggas buck fifties.

I watch Jadakiss gradually return to Earth’s surface as the beat fades out. April 7th, baby. The Last Kiss. You know what it is, baby! The album promo ends with his signature laugh—a raspy wheeze somewhere between amusement and an extremely dry cough. I wish it was still 2009 because I’d love to pick up a physical copy. It’s funny how excited Jada was when he found out that he could curse since he never actually did. He said nigga a few times and made a couple drug dealing references, but nothing too crazy. I doubt he actually cared about cursing. He just needed the freedom of knowing that he could.