MS. C., a fourth grade teacher, doesn’t normally need to be told what’s going on. She has seen basic social skills -the residuals of once common decency – erode within her classes, almost annually, for 30 years.
Her students, mostly ten-year-olds, arrive in September slightly more violent, slightly more foul-mouthed and slightly more sexually expressive than each preceding class.
But Ms. C. never gives up. In fact, she now goes out of her way to “adopt” the neediest kids in her class as pet “projects.” She recently told me about one such student, “an adorable little boy,” but one, she said, clearly at social risk.
Ms. C. said that the child had recently asked her to call him “Fitty” – the quick-hit pronunciation for the popular recording artist 50 Cent, the boy’s hero. She seemed amused – and not the least bit alarmed – by his request.
I asked if she was familiar with 50 Cent’s particular form of artistry. She said, “He’s a rapper, right?” Hmmm.
Ms. C., at my insistence, then typed, “50 Cent, lyrics” into a search engine. A list of song titles appeared. I told her to choose any three. After skimming through just one, Ms. C. said:
“Oh, my God; this is unbelievable. This is . . . These are the most hateful, disgusting, pornographic words I’ve ever seen in print. I can’t believe that a 10-year-old – anyone -could . . .” She then went on to read the lyrics of a second song. Her reaction: “Ugh! This is outrageous. . .” 5
0 Cent, tonight on CBS, is a featured attraction within CBS’s presentation of the Grammy Awards. He’s up for two awards, including “Best New Artist.” His album was last year’s biggest seller.
And even if you don’t plan to watch, make it your business to click to 50 Cent’s lyrics – just to see exactly where we’re at, just so you can better understand exactly what’s now packaged and sold by adults to American minors as music, as art, as creative expressionism.
A sadder truth is that 50 Cent is a dime-a-dozen. He isn’t much different from other popular gangsta rap-pers. He wears the same street-gang uniform and reflexively refers to African-American males as “N–s” while women are called “hoes” and/or “b–es” who exist only to serve his graphic sexual appetite before they’re abruptly discarded. Next!
50 Cent’s rap rivals – real or imagined (the gangsta genre carries an almost obligatory hatred of other “artists”) – are, in some cuts, issued menacing threats. 50 Cent proudly claims to have been shot nine times. He might be exaggerating, but such a claim is good for his image.
And it’s not as if such rappers (and their posses) are all bark and no bullets. Rappers and wannabe rappers are murdered – often by each other – almost daily.
In case someone tries to excuse or rationalize 50 Cent’s work as a matter of “cultural expressionism,” know that he’s not protesting or lamenting anything on behalf of anyone. He brags about – celebrates -his misanthropy. He advances every negative stereotype of young, black, urban males. It’s a living. And the money’s pouring in.
That’s as close as I can come in print to capturing the commercial essence of 50 Cent. His lyrics are too vulgar, too violent, too hateful, too racist, too homophobic, too misogynistic, too dehumanizing for transcription.
And tonight on CBS, he’s up for two Grammy Awards.
“Where,” Ms. C. asked, “is Al Sharpton on this guy?”
Funny, she should ask. Reverend Sharpton’s list of presidential campaign donors includes gangsta rap impresario P. Diddy and 50 Cent-like rapper Jay-Z. But why should we expect any politician, let alone a titular man of God who represents himself as a social activist on behalf of African-Americans, to be immune from hush money?
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