Hotep And Hip-hop; Can Black Muslim Women Be Down With Hip-hop?

anaya mcmurray

Hotep and Hip-Hop Can Black Muslim Women Be Down with Hip-Hop?1

Abstract “Black Muslim women and hip-hop? . . . real Muslims don’t listen to hip-hop.” For many it is almost unfathomable that black Muslim women would have any involvement with hip-hop music. While several scholars have explored the connections between hip-hop and Islam, hiphop scholarship usually neglects in-depth conversations about black Muslim women. Using the examples of Erykah Badu, Eve, and myself, this paper explores the ways in which black Muslim women of the hip-hop generation use our music to negotiate faith and culture. Creating improvisation zones that highlight the flexibility of religion as it moves through cultures and spaces of resistance, black Muslim women successfully reconcile hotep and hip-hop.

Introduction Though several scholars and critics have explored the connections between hip-hop and Islam,2 for many it is almost unfathomable that black Muslim women would have any involvement with hip-hop music. Using the examples of hip-hop artists Erykah Badu, Eve, and myself, I argue that the ways in which black Muslim women balance structures in Islam with hiphop culture create unique spaces or “improvisation zones”3 through music that define and express religious and cultural identities simultaneously.

[Meridians: feminism, race, transnationalism 2008, vol. 8, no. 1, pp. 74–92] © 2008 by Smith College. All rights reserved.

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Recognizing and celebrating these improvisation zones have serious political implications in contemporary U.S. society. At the juncture of religion and culture there are often moments of improvisation that are ignored in discourses around Islam, which thus marginalize the experiences of particular groups of Muslims, such as black Muslim women. The ways in which black Muslim women have become agents in negotiating Islamic faith and hip-hop culture in their music is of great significance when considering issues of power and representation that work to define and control black Muslim womanhood. This paper will explore this significance by highlighting the ways in which black Muslim women become improvisational agents, negotiating Islam and hip-hop in their music, as well as some of the tools used by the larger society to represent Islam and hip-hop that work to marginalize black Muslim women.

Improvisation as a Useful Metaphor Whether in theater, music, or everyday conversations, the arrangement of ideas is never simply random, but is always guided by structures encountered in our experiences. In her discussion of jazz improvisation, Ingrid Monson argues that improvisation has a “collaborative and communicative quality” that becomes apparent when “musical sounds, people, and their musical and cultural histories” interact (Monson 1994, 2). Thus improvisation occurs within a space structured by the experiences and histories of the people involved. With this in mind, I use improvisation zones as a metaphor to describe spaces that represent ways in which Islam moves in and through cultures as a “boundary object.” Islam can be considered a boundary object since it is malleable enough to hold multiple meanings in various contexts, while still having some coherence or recognizable structures across communities.4 When defining an object, one should always consider “the moments and histories of its production over time, the contests for meaning within which it is embedded, [and] the political contours that are the circumstances out of which it is fabricated” (King 1994, xvi). Treating Islam as a boundary object that must travel through contested meanings, political histories, and various communities draws attention to the presence and power of people as agents who shape the faith within particular cultures. Despite very rigid definitions of Islam and hip-hop circulating in the U.S. public imaginary, black Muslim women

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exercise agency, creating new meanings and interesting spaces of resistance through mixing faith and hip-hop culture.5

“The Proof is in the People” and the Music: Black Women, Islam, and Hip-Hop Bakari Kitwana defines the hip-hop generation as “those young African Americans born between 1965 and 1984 who came of age in the eighties and nineties and . . . share a specific set of values and attitudes” (Kitwana 2002, 4). Though this definition ignores the contribution of non-blacks to hip-hop, it is useful in locating cultural aspects in relation to a particular group, black Muslim women. Kitwana outlines six major sociopolitical forces that have shaped the hip-hop generation: the visibility of black youth in popular culture, globalization, the persistent nature of segregation, public policy surrounding the criminal justice system, media representations of black youth, and the general quality of life within the hip-hop community. To differentiate this generation from the civil rights and black power generations, Kitwana outlines several of the unique values and attitudes that constitute a hip-hop identity: materialism, a disjuncture between the sexes, the acceptance of nontraditional family arrangements, racial consciousness shaped by events such as the Million Man March, media transmissions of representations (often misrepresentations) of black culture, and an ability to effectively cross class lines. It is this generation that has created the culture of hip-hop, which originated in New York as a result of the 1970s post-industrial decline (Pough 2004) and spread across the nation and the globe. In this sense, the culture was created out of a communal resistance to desperation due to lack of jobs to support families and a shortage of activities for youth. Hiphop culture is thus constituted by an ability to create alternative spaces of growth and expression as well as new ways of accessing capital for black people (as well as many other people of color) raised in an America that has often cultivated the values and attitudes Kitwana outlines. When I refer to black Muslim women and hip-hop, I do not consider black Muslim women and rap music, but black Muslim women who create music and who are a part of the hip-hop generation Kitwana describes. Erykah Badu, Eve, and I are three black women who are a part of the hip-

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hop generation and who construct improvisation zones through the infusion of Islamic faith and hip-hop culture in the music we create. Erykah Badu

Erykah Badu (born Erykah Abi Wright) is a rhythm and blues, rap, and soul artist who has released three major albums with multi-platinum sales, and has received four Grammys among many other awards. Born in 1971 in Dallas, Texas, Badu was far removed from the South Bronx, the birthplace of hip-hop. However, hip-hop culture began to travel almost as soon as its inception, since governmental policies limiting support for working-class and poor people and social arrangements that encouraged continued disparity in housing and education affected African Americans in most major cities. As a result, rap music as well as other elements of hip-hop culture spread rapidly as forms of expression and coping mechanisms for disenfranchised youth. By the late 1980s hip-hop culture had traveled and was adapted in many inner cities across America, including Dallas, where Badu was known as “MC Apples,” one half of a high-school female rap duo. Now a well respected and accomplished singer and songwriter, Badu’s music is perhaps one of the best examples of an improvisation zone that fuses Islam and hip-hop culture. In the song “One,” Erykah Badu and Busta Rhymes team up to reflect on their ideal family situation according to Five Percenter religious beliefs. The Five Percent Nation is a group of Muslims who follow the teachings of Clarence 13X, a former member of the Nation of Islam (NOI). Due to dissatisfaction with the NOI, Clarence 13X left the community in the early 1960s and spread his own perspective on Islam until his death in 1969. Ideas about the roles of women and men in the Nation of Gods and Earths are key in the lyrics: Busta Rhymes (BR) What I’m gonna do with Erykah Badu / I’m gonna have some fun / What do you consider fun? / Fun, natural fun Erykah Badu (EB) I said what I’m gonna do with my man Buster Rhymes / I’m gonna have some fun / What do you consider fun / Fun, natural fun. (Badu and Rhymes 1997) Though the average listener may not attribute such lyrics to the influence of Islam, those who have knowledge of the guiding principles of Five Percenters may offer an alternative interpretation. In the above lyrics a simple reference to having “natural fun” can be seen as a proclamation

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that Islam is the natural way of life, which is one of nine principles that Five Percenters live by. In fact the title of the song “One” and the following content, which is concerned with building a family unit that acts as one, reflects another principle, that “the unified Black family is the vital building block of the Nation” (McCloud 1995, 60). (BR) . . . I self Lord am / So divine when me and my woman coincide as one mind / Bear witness, one respect, one culture, one way of thinking, one vision, making the one decision, the one way of living / Common destiny amongst all / One understanding amongst me and my woman so that we can’t fall / And keep moving forward based on actual fact / Yes yall my beautiful Mother Earth respect her to the max / Can’t mix up or tamper with it no more / We’re on the highest form of emotion, holy sacred and pure / And what’s mine is yours, specially if we move in the same direction / Just for one common cause/ Just one, opportunity to handle our biz/ Just one, mind state so we can equally live/ Just one, you know we only have one life to live/ Let’s come together as one (EB) As one / One family / As one / One little kiss now / As one / One entirety / As one/ And let us all uplift now. (Badu and Rhymes 1997) Busta Rhymes calls himself “Lord” because Five Percenters believe that when a man learns the proper lessons in life his status becomes divine. In this doctrine, men become gods and women are earths, which is why he refers to his woman as “Mother Earth.” He also proclaims that the way in which the family should move is based on actual fact, which speaks to the Five Percent doctrine that asserts God is not a mystery and that everything in the universe can be explained mathematically. Therefore one’s actions can be based on fact instead of on blind faith. Felicia M. Miyakawa contends that while the Nation of Islam uses numbers to uncover hidden Quranic mysteries, Five Percenters call on the power of numbers in their everyday lives. For the Five Percent Nation numbers are a flexible way to find and create meaning; numerology is used creatively to “show and prove” ideas that otherwise would be matters of faith. . . . Five Percenters take pride in their ability to “show and prove” the naturalness of their way of life, instead of allowing useless rules to determine their daily practices. (Miyakawa 2005, 30–31)

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Following the verse by Busta Rhymes, Erykah Badu sings a hook or chorus that reiterates the importance of the family unit thinking as one in order to uplift. Through supporting traditional gender roles within a patriarchal belief system, this song often mirrors popular representations of Muslim male/female dynamics, in which women are relegated to roles of submission. In her explanation of male/female dynamics in the Five Percent Nation, Aminah Beverley McCloud claims that women, referred to as Earths, learn who they are and their proper place from the men. In general, the woman’s role is “to learn to keep children, home and be there for her man.” She is also taught proper behavior for home and abroad. Women can have a profession and a career; this is an avenue for spreading understanding. Women are to be fully covered, wearing face veils with unadorned skin (no cosmetics are used). (McCloud 1995, 61) Though this may be the popular representation of the group, it is important to consider the differences between representation and the actual practices and beliefs of individuals who make up the group, the difference between structured conventions and creative practice. While Badu espouses Five Percenter principles, she also maintains flexibility in the roles that men and women have, and certainly doesn’t cover herself at all times in public or go without cosmetics. Badu’s nontraditional thoughts about family are represented in the following lyrics: (EB) . . . As my sunlight, I bear witness to you / Being the foundation you can come home and watch the babies too (BR) The one way we agree on how to follow tradition (EB) This one family coming first / Play your position / You make the sacrifices, I make the same too (BR) From all the struggle (EB) That I see, that’s why my love is for you (BR) You always hold it down for me, so I’m a hold it for you / And watch the babies while you secure the food that come through (EB) Now don’t let my ambition make you feel like competition / We should both play a role in our whole living condition (BR) True indeed

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(EB) I know you symbolize the strength inside the family / Then show me you can handle womanly responsibilities (BR) Not a problem I know you hold me down when I fall on the ground / But make sure when you bring the food home there’s enough to go round (EB) And because you are my everything what’s mine is yours / Moving in the same direction, just for one common cause. (Badu and Rhymes 1997) In this conversation, Erykah Badu proclaims that she can still follow the basic Five Percenter principles, but she knows that the roles women and men play are not static ones contingent upon rigid categories. In light of Kitwana’s belief that there is a severe disjuncture between the sexes, these ideas about the roles of men, women, and family are also important in hip-hop culture. Though the hip-hop generation may have been raised in an environment that cultivated a sense of alienation between the sexes, many who identify with the hip-hop generation recognize this and resist the divide. As previously stated, hip-hop culture, and by extension hip-hop music, has been a space for alternative expression, therefore it can be a space of resistance. Similarly, this hip-hop song that details the ideal family unit, according to Five Percenter beliefs, challenges the notions of division and competition between the sexes, opting instead for the celebration of unification. eve

Eve Jilhan Jeffers (Eve) is a multi-platinum rap artist who took the music industry by storm in 1999 with the release of her debut album Eve: Ruff Ryders’ First Lady. Though she has been known most recently for her clothing line Fetish, her UPN television-show Eve, and her roles in major films such as XXX and Barbershop, Eve has been rapping and singing since she was teenager. Born in Philadelphia in 1979, Eve dealt with the obstacles she faced as a youth with the help of poetry and music; pursuing these interests became a welcome alternative to her job as a stripper during her teens. Eve’s music often expresses many of the attitudes that help to shape hiphop culture. In the song “Heaven Only Knows” she reveals some of the

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troubles she encountered in life and how rapping became a way to escape her hardships: Went from dancing on tabletops to making labels pop / For the love of the money so I could cop / Everything from icy rings to drop tops, and now I’m on top / But to look back on my reality, happy I stopped. (Eve 1999) Eve discusses how she chose to become a stripper so that she could have access to expensive merchandise. These lyrics reflect Kitwana’s ideas about the hip-hop generation’s obsession with achieving wealth by any means necessary. However, she goes on to discuss how being involved in this lifestyle at such an early age was detrimental to developing a sense of self worth: No one in the house knew TV was my life / What am I to do but cry alone at night / Who was I to tell, and what would they think of me / No one understood the pain that was sent to me / Broke down from the things men would say to me/ Selling drinks to a naive kid, I blamed me / But I really never had someone to tell me what to do / Teach me that I’m better than just pussy, that’s true / Teach me that the future was written already waiting to respect myself in life not to be consumed with hate / And do positive and positive will happen / Stay positive and positive was rapping / It was like my brain was clouded with unnecessary shit / But I chose to see through the negative and make hits, but Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/ Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/Heaven only knows/ Uh, uh, yo, yo/ Now I’m 20 years old and look where I’m at / I thank Allah every night and pray there’s no turning back. (Eve 1999) In this section, Eve tackles several issues related to her faith and hip-hop culture. Recognizing the negative effect that television had on her as a child, Eve’s lyrics are perhaps evidence of Kitwana’s argument that the media and popular culture affect the ways in which members of the hiphop generation perceive our identities. “Today, more and more Black youth are turning to rap music, music videos, designer clothing, popular Black films, and television programs for values and identity” (Kitwana 2002, 9). Further, Eve’s relationship to the men she discusses can also be seen as a commentary on the sense of alienation that works to divide the sexes in the

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hip-hop generation. In addition, though ideas about destiny, karma, and heaven are a part of many religions, they are certainly central to Islam. The improvisation zone that Eve has created presents an interesting case because ideas about religion are not as explicit as those in Erykah Badu’s lyrics. In fact the only explicit clue that speaks to Eve’s identity as a Muslim in her music is the occasional use of Allah. As stated earlier, Monson argues that improvisation is communal, therefore meaning is created not only by the musical artist but also by audience perception. She states that: how musicians go about saying something in music and about music— as well as in music and about identity, politics, and race—involves interaction at several analytical levels: (1) the creation of music through the improvisational interaction of sounds; (2) the interactive shaping of social networks and communities that accompany musical participation; and (3) the development of culturally variable meaning and ideologies that inform the interpretation of jazz in American society. (Monson 1994, 2) When black Muslim women create music, they create social networks or communities that, depending on their particular experiences, interpret this fusion of religion and culture in different ways. For instance, many people have never considered whether Eve is Muslim or not, although she refers to God as Allah in her music, and thanks Allah in the credits on her CDs. I am not one hundred percent certain that Eve identifies as a Muslim. However, I read her as Muslim because of my experiences as a black Muslim woman. First her usage of Allah, instead of God, or Lord, is certainly a clue. Second, it is common for Muslims to discuss who is and isn’t Muslim, especially when artists use Islamic terminology. Grapevine communication helps to support my reading of Eve as a Muslim. Third, Eve’s use of Islamic terminology and my grapevine communications are supported by the particular community she came from. Philadelphia has one of the largest black Muslim populations in the country. In addition Eve has been associated with many rap artists from Philadelphia who identify as Muslims and who also infuse their music with Islam and hip-hop culture. These artists include rappers like Freeway and Beanie Siegal. Through discussing the music of Muslims with non-Muslims, it has become obvious to me that many non-Muslims often do not read any

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connections between the Islamic faith and black women’s hip-hop music, and even miss blatant references to Islam. It is perhaps most obvious that these references are either ignored or missed when searching for the lyrics to Eve’s songs. For example, in looking through websites for the correct lyrics to Eve’s “Heaven Only Knows,” I noticed that every site had transcribed “I thank the Lord every night and pray there’s no turning back,” whereas Eve actually says “I thank Allah every night and pray there’s no turning back.” Inaccurate lyrics are not unusual on websites, however, usually where one site makes a mistake, another site will have a correction, or at least an alternative inaccuracy. In this case, after checking over seven websites, “the Lord” instead of “Allah” was used in every case. While it may be argued that the words are simply not clear, perhaps it never occurred to those who transcribed the lyrics that Eve could be Muslim or could have said Allah instead of Lord. In the absence of absolute clarity, they chose the latter, the more familiar. Though Eve creates an improvisation zone for the simultaneous expression of faith and culture, the particular experiences and histories of the audience will change the way improvisational meanings are interpreted, which leaves room for black Muslim women to read themselves into hip-hop culture’s narrative. anaya alimah

Born and raised on the south side of Chicago, I have been making music since I was a small child. Encouraged by my mother, a former piano instructor and vocal music major, I’ve been trained as a classical clarinetist since the age of nine. Though I began to write poetry in high school, my classical training and love for jazz were major distractions from any serious consideration of emceeing. I began rapping, producing, and engineering (under the name Anaya Alimah6) after building my own studio, as a way to reconcile my passion for music and my research. In my music, I also infuse my spiritual beliefs with hip-hop culture. “More Than Usual” is a song that grapples with class, race, gender, and music industry politics, reflecting the spirit of resistance in hip-hop culture in ways that are tied to my faith: It’s Anaya Alimah, lyrical entertainer / Simply complex, the best way to describe my demeanor / I’m all about my freedom, don’t follow I’m a leader / That’s why they tapping me tracking the books that I be reading

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/ My double consciousness, multiplied exponential / To hold these facts I’m into, to be exact I’m into / Hill Collins, Tricia Rose, that’s how my mental grows / Mohanty, Anzaldúa philosophies I know While brothas shouting Huey P., Marcus G. / I’m politicking, sifting through the thoughts of Fatima Mernissi, Listen / I mean no disrespect, them brothas spit some wisdom / But history erased, the sistas right there with them / Silenced with the devaluation of femininity / We don’t revolve around you, my brothas can’t u see / I’m talking liberation, not of the black man / All people, every nation, tell me can u understand? {Hook} I don’t think that they feelin me though / That’s what happens when you rap about more than getting doe / I don’t think that they feelin me though / That’s what happens when you rap about more than trivial / I don’t think that they feelin me though / That’s what happens when you rap about more than getting doe / I don’t think that they feelin me though / That’s what happens when you rap about more than usual {Verse 2} Come kick it with the Queen / I like the finer things / Juices and berries for my locks, nourishment for my thoughts / To each its own they say, to you be your way, me be mine / So while the people sleep, conspiracies I find / Its revolution time, better yet solution time / Too many just fall in line, capital control they minds. In this portion of the song, I call attention to my views of race when I say, “my double consciousness is multiplied exponential.” This is a way of acknowledging an intersectional consciousness that gives credence to gender, class, and other identities within hip-hop culture, as opposed to just racial consciousness. I also address the way in which great female thinkers have been overlooked in hip-hop culture for the more traditional black Nationalist thematic often represented by the appropriation of Huey P. Newton and Marcus Garvey. In addition, I disagree with the notion that women revolve around men like the Earth around the Sun, which refers to the symbolism used by Five Percenters to describe the roles of men and women. In the hook I suggest that the music industry has restricted the spaces in which rap music that grapples with more than the usual mes-

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sages of capitalism can exist. I then go on to challenge the “get rich or die trying” mentality by stating that I consider the finer things in life to be juices and berries for my locks and knowledge as opposed to diamonds and fancy cars, saying that capitalism has taken over the minds of many people. Also, I aver that this mentality is antithetical to my religious beliefs and paraphrase an ayah, or verse, from the Quran: “To you be your Way, and to me mine” (Ali 1997, 1708). Though I used only one reference to the Quran that can be considered explicitly Islamic, the entire song is a reflection of my spirituality and how spirituality influences my analysis of my surroundings. The goal of Islam and the Quran is to provide “key principles of human development: justice, equity, harmony, moral responsibility, spiritual awareness, and development” for communities and individuals to emulate (Wadud 1995, 95). If one considers Islam as a spiritual mindset that includes more than ritual acts, as a faith that encompasses a genuine concern with social interactions, then Islam cannot be separated from issues of social justice. Issues of social justice such as the treatment of women, government surveillance, and the greed that often accompanies capitalism are necessarily spiritual challenges and are represented as such in my lyrics, which merge my concerns as a member of the hip-hop generation with my faith.

The Master’s Tools: Misrepresentation and Marginalization Though Muslim women contribute to hip-hop culture, this is rarely discussed. Several tools are used to misrepresent and/or marginalize the experiences of black Muslim women: popular images of Muslim women, the repression of “unchurched” voices in black history and mass media, and the roles men and women are encouraged to play in the hip-hop industry. These tools actively seek to control black Muslim womanhood and/or render it invisible. images of muslim women

When comparing images of Erykah Badu, Eve, and myself with popular images of Muslim women, a vast difference is apparent. The most prevalent images of Muslim women are of covered Middle Eastern women. While Badu often wears a head wrap, it is often worn in an Afrocentric style, standing tall on her head like a crown. In addition, Badu wears a variety of clothing

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styles, usually dresses, high heels, tight pants, and sleeveless shirts. I have never seen Eve adorned in any head covering other than a hat. In addition, Eve is often scantly clad, showing off the paw-print tattoos on her chest and her long legs. I have not worn a traditional hijab or Islamic head covering in years, and I often wear short sleeves and skirts that do not completely cover my legs. Our images challenge the misrepresentation that all Muslim women are Middle Eastern and/or that Muslim women cover at all times, and don’t have the freedom to pursue careers in music and entertainment. In addition, we challenge the assumption that women who are not visibly marked as belonging to another faith are by default Christian. repressing the voices of the unchurched

Christian hegemony is another tool used to marginalize black Muslim women. “Usually a system of ritual and belief that challenges the spiritual domination of the Black Church will be dismissed or confined to obscurity. This is because of the continuing reluctance of historians and sociologists to dispute the overall representation of African-American religious space as confined largely to the Christian paradigm” (Dannin 2002, 46). As an example, Robert Dannin discusses Edward Wilmot Blyden, a scholar, churchman, and missionary noted in black history for his contribution to Pan-Africanism. However, Blyden’s visits to West Africa for missionary work convinced him that Islam was a very logical choice of religion for Africans. Blyden’s religious beliefs are ambiguous; because he worked for the church, to publicly convert to Islam would have meant loss of employment. Dannin contends that over the years, most commentators have focused on his role in building Pan-Africanism to the exclusion of any serious discussion about his Islamic persona, instead portraying Islam as an irrational or immoral choice for persons of African descent. I refer to this tendency as the overdetermination of African-American history by the Black Church. As an implicit ideology of both church and academic scholarship, it limits intellectual expression by repressing the voices of the unchurched. (Dannin 2002, 22) This repression affects not only intellectual expression, but also representations of black religion in black culture and mass media. The repression of unchurched voices is evident in mass media, for

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example, when considering the two networks that specifically aim to represent black culture, Black Entertainment Television (BET) and TV One. Though these networks are supposed to represent black culture and not black Christian culture, they both devote many hours to Christian programming on Sunday, perhaps understandably, but also almost every morning of the week before 8am. Despite the fact that African Americans are Bahai, Jewish, Muslim, Yoruba, etc., no significant, if any, representations of non-Christian religious beliefs appear on these networks. This is particularly problematic for the hip-hop generation since, as previously discussed, representations of black culture on television have an impact on the ways in which those in the hip-hop generation construct identity. Therefore, excluding non-Christian religious representation on these networks works against accurate representations of black culture and hiphop culture, both of which are heterogeneous. double standards: the roles of muslim men and momen in the hip-hop industry

Though hip-hop culture is much bigger than its expressive elements, in recent years, rap music and videos have often been the most visible aspects of the culture in mass media, and are often taken as accurate reflections of the culture. The hyper-visibility of the hip-hop music industry may lead people to believe that those who are not well represented in the industry are also not a significant part of the culture. This thinking certainly works to render invisible the contributions and experiences of black Muslim women in the culture. Moreover, the reason black Muslim women are not well represented in the industry is largely because the specific roles that black Muslim women are often encouraged to play in general, and the roles that women are encouraged to play in the hip-hop music industry, often conflict. Muslim women are often expected to fit into stereotypical “good girl” roles by Muslims and non-Muslims alike. These expectations encourage them to be tied to the home, submissive, and veiled, conditions that are not reconcilable with a career in the rap music industry. On the other hand, the roles most often available for black women in the music industry are those of hyper-sexualized video dancers and/or rappers. These conflicting role expectations may certainly work to restrict black Muslim women’s representation, and perhaps their participation, in the rap music industry,

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which has often been synonymous with hip-hop culture in the minds of many. Despite the fact that there are some conflicting expectations of men in Islam with those of men in the rap music industry, black Muslim men have been able to carve a substantial niche in the industry, partially because the spaces men are encouraged to occupy in hip-hop are far more expansive. Artists such as Africa Bambata, Public Enemy, Brand Nubian, Rakim, Mos Def, Freeway, Beanie Siegal, Busta Rhymes, Q-Tip, and Black Thought have been able to express their religious beliefs while still fulfilling an often conflicting role in the music industry; blatant double standards existing within Islamic communities, hip-hop, and the larger U.S. culture work to their advantage. First, it seems to be much more acceptable for males to occupy the “conscious rap” sector of the industry. This is evident in the fact that any true hip-hop fan could probably name at least ten male artists who are considered to be conscious rappers, with artists like Common, Talib Kweli, Rakim, and Mos Def leading the list. However, the same fan would certainly be hard-pressed to name three females in this category of rap. This gross under-representation of women in the “conscious rap” arena makes it less likely for black Muslim women to pursue careers in this industry. Just as a significant number of the male rappers who are Muslim occupy a noticeable space in this arena, the “conscious rap community” would probably be more accommodating than other areas of rap to a black Muslim woman’s religious beliefs. Since women in America in general, and specifically in the music industry, are valued more for their physical appearance than their mental capacity, it is not surprising that more women and/or black Muslim women are not represented in this subgroup of rap. Second, though there are also specific roles that Muslim men are expected to play, which may often seem antithetical to the roles men are encouraged to play in the hip-hop music industry, double standards may make it easier for men to reconcile their faith and the space they occupy in the industry. For instance, smoking, drinking, having premarital sex, using disrespectful language, and frequenting clubs are not activities that have been traditionally acceptable in Islamic communities, for men or women. However, when Muslim men promote these activities in their music they are not usually looked at in a negative light. Further, they are

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often put on a pedestal and embraced by Muslim communities as good spokespersons. In his essay about Mos Def—a famous orthodox Muslim rapper from Brooklyn—Ali Asadullah follows a similar script. He states, “Mos Def . . . represents arguably the first time that an artist, solidly wedded to the orthodoxy of the religion, has stepped into mainstream popularity with a complete, well-articulated Islamic message as a part and parcel of . . . [his] popularity” (Asadullah 2002, 238). Granted, Mos Def is probably one of the most popular rappers, known for resisting many of the stereotypical violent, criminal, and hyper-sexualized images of black men in hip-hop with his thought-provoking lyrics. However, to say that he brings a complete Islamic message most certainly ignores his messages in songs like “Ms. Fat Booty,” in which he raps about meeting a woman in a club with an “ass so fat you could see it from the front,” dating her, and having premarital sex with her (Mos Def 1999). Similarly, it is common for male Muslim rappers, like Busta Rhymes and Q-Tip, to have the usual images of naked black female bodies as a part of the scenery in music videos. It is not as if I think these activities and/or lyrics make these men any less Muslim; however, I do know that a Muslim woman who is explicit about her religious beliefs could not take a similar approach without more backlash from Muslim communities. The first time that I heard Eve was a Muslim, it was from a Muslim man who had three children out of wedlock, consistently lied to women and used them for their money, and at the age of thirty frequented college parties to pick up women. Yet his thoughts about Eve were that she claimed to be a Muslim, but “that bitch” isn’t a Muslim because she didn’t cover her body, used to be a stripper, and has tattoos. This type of double standard that makes it acceptable for men to be promiscuous and to behave in an “un-Islamic” manner is quite pervasive, especially when the men are not in environments where they are necessarily dealing with other Muslims. Again, because the rap industry is often seen as an accurate reflection of hip-hop culture, black Muslim women’s representation, or lack thereof, is of great importance when considering ideas about their role in the culture at large. Community and/or commercial expectations of the roles of women in hip-hop music, Islam, and black religion in general converge to restrict the spaces that black Muslim women have to express in hip-hop culture a minority faith and perspective. Therefore, though it is refreshing

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for me to explore the ways in which black Muslim women are simultaneously expressing our identities as Muslims and as members of the hip-hop generation, acknowledgment of this expression is significant because through creating these spaces or improvisation zones where we reconcile faith and culture through music, we challenge popular representations of Muslim women, representations of black religion, as well as representations of the roles women can play in the hip-hop music industry.

Conclusion The question, “can black Muslim women be down with hip-hop?” is not just about whether black Muslim women can create music in the hip-hop music industry. Rather, it is a larger question about whether black Muslim women are active participants and reflections of hip-hop culture, if they were born in the hip-hop generation. Moreover, the question encourages the exploration of factors that may lead many to believe that black Muslim women cannot identify with hip-hop culture. First, many consider Islam to be fixed—non-fluid. Often the media and Islamic communities paint Islam as a foreign concept that is practiced in its correct form in the Middle East. However, this thinking does not acknowledge that Islam is a boundary object that is shaped by its particular contexts. Thus, improvisation becomes a useful metaphor when describing the ways in which black Muslim women are agents in shaping their faith within a particular cultural environment—hip-hop culture. This improvisation does not make Americanized versions of Islam any less authentic. Though many Muslims would like us to believe that Middle Eastern Muslims have been able to properly imitate the “original” Islam, and haven’t at all shaped the faith within their own cultural parameters, this is of course not true. Second, particular tools are used to misrepresent and therefore marginalize the actual experiences of black Muslim women. These tools include popular images of Muslim women in the mass media, which often do not depict black women, and especially not uncovered black Muslim women; the ways in which the voices of the unchurched have been repressed in black history and popular culture; and the systemic hyper-sexualization and marginalization of black women in the hip-hop music industry, which is often seen as an accurate reflection of hip-hop culture.

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Black Muslim women such as Erykah Badu, Eve, and myself create through our music spaces of resistance in improvisation zones. Whether creating music that specifically outlines our religious beliefs, that discusses our particular experiences, or that espouses a political agenda, reflections of faith and hip-hop culture are expressed simultaneously. Further, we also create spaces for other black Muslim women to see and/or read themselves into hip-hop culture’s narratives. Though black Muslim women are down with hip-hop, discussions about our participation in the culture are much bigger than hip-hop. They are discussions of power relationships that black Muslim women who are a part of the hip-hop generation must negotiate with those who make up the multiple communities with which we are affiliated.

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notes “Hotep” is a common salutation that simply means peace. The word “Islam” means submission, and the idea behind the Islamic faith is that if one submits to the will of Allah then he or she will achieve true peace. Therefore, I use Hotep to represent this notion of peace. See Asadullah 2002, Kitwana 2002, and Miyakawa 2005. In the most general sense, improvisation can be defined as the balancing of structure and creativity (Sawyer 2001). Thus improvisation zones are spaces in which black Muslim women negotiate the structures that constitute our religious and cultural identities with individual (and sometimes collective) creativity in applying these structures to our lives. For an elaboration on the concept of boundary objects, see Bowker and Star 2000. What constitutes Islam and Muslims as a group is certainly debatable. I define Muslims as those who submit to the will of God or to Islam, believe in the angels, the Day of Judgment, the scriptures and prophets (including the Quran and the Prophet Muhammad), praying, and doing good deeds on earth. I do not necessarily exclude those who may not be traditionally labeled Muslim. From my perspective and interpretation of the Quran, to be a Muslim it is not necessary to attend a mosque (Islamic temple of worship), pray at designated times of the day in a specific manner, cover one’s body completely (for women), or make the pilgrimage to Mecca. Many Muslims may disagree with the ways in which I distinguish between Muslims and non-Muslims. The distinctions I have provided are an example of my agency in new meaning-making that is a result of my own cultural experiences. These categories are not intended to be static. Instead they represent my particular worldview, a unique lens to contribute to the multiple perspectives impacting discourses on Islam.

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6. Anaya is the name my mother gave me at birth. Since I had no middle name and didn’t want to change my first name when I became Muslim, I took the Muslim name Alimah as a middle name when I was seventeen.

works cited Ali, Abdullah Yusuf. 1997. The Meaning of the Holy Quran. Beltsville, MD: Amana Publications. Asadullah, Ali. 2002. “You’re Gonna Have to Serve Somebody.” In Taking Back Islam: American Muslims Reclaim Their Faith, edited by Michael Wolfe and the producers of Beliefnet, 237-40. Emmaus, PA: Rodale. Bowker, Geoffrey C. and Susan Leigh Star. 2000. Sorting Things Out: Classification and its Consequences. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Dannin, Robert. 2002. Black Pilgrimage to Islam. New York: Oxford University Press. King, Katie. 1994. Theory in its Feminist Travels: Conversations in U.S. Women’s Movements. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Kitwana, Bakari. 2002. The Hip Hop Generation: Young Blacks and the Crisis in AfricanAmerican Culture. New York: Basic Civitas Books. McCloud, Aminah Beverly. 1995. African American Islam. New York: Routledge. Miyakawa, Felicia M. 2005. Five Percenter Rap: God Hop’s Music, Message, and Black Muslim Mission. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Monson, Ingrid. 1994. Saying Something: Jazz Improvisation and Interaction. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pough, Gwendolyn D. 2004. Check It While I Wreck It: Black Womanhood, Hip Hop Culture, and the Public Sphere. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Sawyer, R. Keith. 2001. Creating Conversations: Improvisation in Everyday Discourse. Cresskill, NJ: Hampton Press Inc. Wadud, Amina. 1999. Qur’an and Woman: Rereading the Sacred Text from a Woman’s Perspective. New York: Oxford University Press. sound recordings Badu, Erykah and Busta Rhymes. 1997. “One.” When Disaster Strikes. Elektra. Audio CD. Eve. 1999. “Heaven Only Knows.” Eve: Ruff Ryders’ First Lady. Interscope Records. Audio CD. Mos Def. 1999. “Ms. Fat Booty.” Black on Both Sides. Priority Records. Audio CD.

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