In Defense of Black Ego
A little under two years ago, Heben Nigatu, a Buzzfeed staff writer and general mind I enjoy, posted a wonderful article on the one and only Kanye West. Nigatu did what many bloggers, journalists, and pop culture mongers do these days; she read a Kanye West interview, broke it down into its parts, and then translated Mr. West’s always complex world view for the devouring masses. Yet, Nigatu, in her great wisdom, made one unpopular adjustment to her analysis. She actually read what Kanye had to say. In what I still think is one of the most concise web-based commentaries on the politics of Black identity and pop culture, Nigatu articulated what so many Black artists, thinkers, and general Black folk living in the world today think but don’t always say, “Kanye’s not crazy”.
I won’t re-hash her argument in full here. There’s no real need, and her words are best read first hand. So if what follows interests you, please go and read Heben’s article here. However, as Kanye’s so-called antics have begun their annual journey through celeb gossip pipelines, I felt it was time I took a nod from Nigatu’s bravery and told the world the truth. To anyone out there who’s listening, you heard it hear first. I love Kanye West. That’s right. I love him almost unconditionally and with no shame. That might be a very loaded statement, and is most certainly a controversial one, but I mean it nonetheless.
The rhetoric of Nigatu’s article is half the reason for my unabashed love. She argues very succinctly that the politics of Black ego have always been complex and unruly, namely that when Black folks articulate extreme pride in themselves and what they do, more often than not, that articulation is read as vanity. Nigatu asserts that this reading actually minimizes the history of Black representation in art and popular culture. Using such examples as the wit of Langston Hughes, the quiet political eroticism of Audre Lorde, and the tradition of laughter as revolt, Nigatu claims that audiences often read anger and opposition into Kanye’s stunts, rather than seeing them for what they truly are: “bravado mixed with a deeply sincere self-reflectiveness”. In other words, when we call Kanye “crazy” we’ve literally minimized his possibility.
Rap culture has always included narratives of “getting out” of the hood by telling your story to a society that historically minimizes it. It has also always included stories of rappers who turn their triumphs into a parade of wealth they wave in the faces of haters. Not because showboating is the be-all end-all of success in the hip-hop world, but because showing a society that says your life doesn’t matter, that it, in fact, does (and sells records) is uplifting. It’s empowering. And it’s an image that those behind you can latch on to. In, other words, “If Kanye can dream, so can I”, said the little Black boy listening to Yeezus on his way to school. Mr. West is not the first rapper to showboat, and he most certainly won’t be the last, but boy does the media love to rain on his parade.
If I’m being honest, my general response to most of Kanye’s antics is “f*@$ it!”. Be as crazy as you want, Yeezy. Keep making music that I like and yelling things I agree with often enough, and I’ll stand by you. This declaration may seem brazen or a little bit crazy, but for me, it feels right. It feels earned. For example, I always felt bad for the Taylor Swift Grammys debacle back in 2009. Kanye hurt her feelings intentionally, and that’s never really okay. But on the other hand, Kanye was so right. I remember laughing so hard I almost fell off my seat. It was funny, and not because white people in pain is something I enjoy, but because honesty is something I respect when it's in defense of Black excellence. Right then, I didn’t particularly care about Taylor’s feelings. I knew her ego would be just fine. She’s the reigning princess of pop. Our entire culture is programmed to come to her aid when she calls (see Britney Spears in 2007 or Amanda Bynes right about now). Even if we ended up eventually exploiting their pain, the original response to our favorite troubled Mean Girls’ cry for help was “How can we fix our darling?” This was not so in Kanye’s case. Instead, the media wheeled around and called him a crazy, vain, a problem. Forgive me for saying this, but there’s something quietly problematic about that difference. Dare I say it, quietly (or not so quietly) racialized?
I suppose this is an interesting access point to understanding my own identity as a Black woman, On some level, I understand Kanye, and I actually like how much he pisses people off. It makes him matter, and by some strange cultural osmosis, once he matters, I feel I matter too.
And that’s a good thing. Because it feeds my soul.
Sometimes when I do good in the playwriting world, I want to put on the world’s longest most beautiful cape, run through the whitest part of some city, and dare somebody to try and knock my pride. Because they won’t. Because I’ve actually got something massive to be proud of.
Because I’m a Black artist, and as Erykah Badu once said “Art is the absence of fear”. My work is my armor; and what’s a good armor without a healthy ego? How else will people know exactly where I stand?
The answer: they won't. And if you ask me, Kanye’s got it right. Laugh louder than all the haters. Some day, if they're smart, they’ll figure out you mean it for reasons that are much larger than self-serving vanity. You’ll mean it because being a Black artist is inherently political, and necessarily a riot.
