What It Means To Teach A Revolution

           

Jasiri X (from http://www.communityjournal.net/
rapper-jasiri-x-releases-video-inspired-by-police-brutality-report/

Jasiri X is a Philadelphia based rapper and educator. He often warms up audiences at the academic hip-hop conferences I attend with quick spurts of what he defines as "edu-tainment". He is not into "the college thing." He started, didn't do real well, and dropped out. But he educates all the time, and the vocabulary embedded in his raps makes it clear that he understands the language of academia quite well.

            He also understands politics, as this statement delivered at the Hip-Hop Education Center's Think Tank III aptly illustrates:

            "Hip-hop is a counter culture," he said. "As such, it's a direct response to white supremacy. When we bring it into the classroom, we cannot forget that."

            I hear iterations of this statement at numerous hip-hop education conferences and I appreciate its value. I feel like it's the reason why the songs by Seattle artists Rogue Pinay and El Dia, and other women who rapped about the intersections of race and immigration among Asian Americans moved me so much and made me feel that it was vital to bring them into my political science classes back when I was still teaching political science in the Seattle area. It seemed like the message brought together history, economic, politics, and society in a way that I could not get students to grasp through readings, lectures, discussions, free writes, quizzes, role plays, and all the other tactics I had tried. I also appreciated the fact that the music was fearless. It seemed to suggest that telling the truth could be done without leaving one with threats, guilt, or defensiveness. One didn't have to point fingers or blame or nag about the need to step outside a comfort zone and get involved. It was almost as if knowing the truth -- or what I would describe as the realities of the conditions of the time and place in which one lived -- would be enough to motivate one to make a change.

            And, so I wonder, can one bring a statement like hip-hop is a direct response to white supremacy into a classroom and get away with it?

            I suppose that's what we do anytime we talk about the history of slavery, the legacy of white privilege, working class struggles for justice, immigration history, and continued inequities in society. But I think we bury the statement in a lot of material and sort of wishfully hope that the students will wade through and hit a point of understanding and consciousness, instead of stating it directly and providing the evidence that supports the statement. It might be because we ourselves are afraid of the statement and what articulating it might do to our careers.

             I often think back to an interview I gave in March 2000 to KHON-TV in Honolulu after spending the night sleeping at the campus center in support of Hawaiian sovereignty and in protest of the Rice vs. Cayetano decision by the U.S. Supreme Court that severely disempowered Hawaiians in their quest for rights and a voice in the self-determination of their lands and their lives. I was a working journalist for a mainstream newspaper at the time so the action had decided consequences: My employer put a letter of sharp rebuke in my personnel file, and invoked a steep cut in my hours which resulted in a significant loss of salary. At the time, I wasn't sure I would survive the repercussions, or if the personnel letter would follow me. (Given my post-2000 resume, I am guessing it has not.) Over the years, I have wondered if this incident made me timid or if it made me wiser. It certainly made me more aware of economic power of corporations in the United States and probably the world. It also made me aware of the difficulties one faces if they go it alone.

            And, I guess that's what gets me to an interchange that has been bothering me for several days. At the Hip-Hop Education Center Think Tank, I was speaking at one point with a white male who started out by flattering me, saying how much he appreciated the work I was doing and the things that I had to say. The conversation went into some rather odd directions as he kept interrupting me for a pen, to write something down, to ask for two sandwiches when the conference organizers had explicitly asked us all to take just one, and then not letting me finish a sentence. I was trying to explain how there was a different answer outside of the capitalist structure and how one needs to look at the socio-cultural milieu in which one operates when one frames one's activism. He kept insisting that participation in the revolution was essential and that participation was making noise, protesting, marching. He interrupted me so many times that I finally said, "You know,  you need to stop interrupting me if you want to hear what I have to say." That statement stopped him short in his tracks. The rest of the lunch was more or less me finishing my thoughts and him staring at me with a stony silence.

            I felt bad later because I felt I had excluded him from the cipher. But I also felt bad because I felt as if what I was trying to say was being devalued because it was not within a frame of understanding that made sense in this individual's perspective.

            After that incident, I saw Jeff Chang. I decided to introduce myself. He was the keynote speaker in the morning, and I appreciated what he had to say. Reading over my notes, I feel several days later as if they address the question of "what it means to teach a revolution". I offer my notes here:

            "Not a rapper; that’s why I teach, why I write."

            He followed with a rather stodgy bit of verse, and then described it as "the oldest story ever told; underdogs achieving against all odds. Finding their voice. That’s the story of hip-hop."

            "Hip-hop has said a lot of things that need to be said.

            "It's also said a lot of things that didn’t need to be said – global commodity culture is displacing radical movements and helping to privatize the world.

            "But it’s still capable of a radical different consciousness.

            "It didn’t begin with a manifesto, as a political movement. It began with kids saying, 'We are here.'

            "That might be a reason why it looks chaotic to others.

            "Call and response is a mode of correction in a lot of ways.

            "Cultural change precedes political change, which is why we continue to believe hip-hop has the power to change the world.

            "We start with hip-hop education with gratitude and humility – homage to the pioneers, perhaps fewer than 300 people.

            "Hip-hop is a testament to power of youthful creativity to take over the world. Consequences of the movement resonate everywhere we travel in the world. It still unites people above the babble of confusion of languages, cultures, religions."

            "Hip-hop study in the academy is what’s recent. The early journalists and some of the early students – Marc Anthony Neal, Tricia Neal – are the academic pioneers in a lot of ways."

            "Scholarship precedes the journalists and us. It goes to the beginnings of the culture. When Herc et al were loading up their crates, they were building a body of knowledge. It didn’t become knowledge because we put it in the university. Hip-hop doesn’t need the academy, but the academy needs hip-hop because it’s an institution in dire need of transformation.

            "Putting it into classes/schools doesn’t automatically make it more relevant. Lot of people are interested in it because they see it as a magical solution … no. There’s issues of bad policy, bad funding, bad leadership.

            "Good hip-hop pedagogy is good pedagogy, period. It’s going to be tough. It’s going to transform teachers, students.

            "Much of the published research is probably years behind the point where most practitioners are currently working.

            "Advantages of gatherings like this – allows practitioners to reflect.

            "We can’t be shy about hip-hop’s contradictions. We have to teach the same criticality that we impose on ourselves. We have to instill in them that they have the power to bring about what’s not there yet but can come."

            "Hip-hop is not so much a movement as much as it is a living, breathing entity."

A public library archive

Using materials in the Schomburg's collection is a bit different from the Cornell archives. One needs a library card with the New York Public Library system, which I now am happily the proud owner of. One also needs, once again, to really know what they're looking for. One needs patience, and one needs to make a commitment to make return visits, and one needs to be prepared to fill out a lot of forms.

            I spent five hours at the library. Most of it was efficient and well-spent. When I arrived, I realized that I wasn't sure where the archives was stored, and it also was clear that the receptionist at the information desk was unsure, too. I also was not sure what kinds of materials would be allowed in the reading room so I asked at the coat check. The receptionist at that counter was not even aware that the Schomburg housed a hip-hop archives, but she told me I could take all of my things to the Rare Manuscripts Collection reading room. I had already taken off my coat so I left it with the coat check, and decided to take a guess that the Rare Manuscripts Collection space was the proper site for the collection.

            I guessed right. When I arrived, there was an archivist at the front desk. I had done a little bit of searching of the New York Public Library system a month earlier and had decided that it would be good to focus my time on a collection donated by Steven Hager, a journalist who had helped develop the film Beat Street and had written what seems like an awesome history of hip-hop. When I requested that particular collection, the archivist knew what I was talking about and handed me a series of forms. Upon learning that I did not have a library card, she sent me to the ground level to apply for one. That was a quick process and I was very happy to discover that the card would be good for three years. It would make several return trips to the Schomburg and the collection possible.

            I went back upstairs, filled out the paperwork, and got a drill down on the reading room policies. As at Cornell, notebooks and pens were not allowed. I could take photographs, but I had to fill out an additional form detailing what I wanted to photograph. I also could take notes on my laptop, but I could not let folders or documents within the folders touch my laptop. I also needed to keep the folders positioned in a way that they would be visible to the front desk.

            Hager's collection consisted of one box with two folders. Both were absolutely joyful gold mines of new information. The first thing that I discovered was a stack of index cards on which was handwritten what appeared to be more or less a book synopsis. The stack of 28 cards, three by five inches, read like a storyboard, which I immediately realized could be a valuable teaching tool for Digital Storytelling.

            I went through the folders quickly, taking a lot of notes and noting a lot of "notes to self." The bulk of the material was the proposal for the book. Its title changed several times, but it ultimately was published as Hip-Hop, with a subtitle that integrated the arts of break-dancing, graffiti, and rapping. It included a couple rough cuts for the proposal, the actual proposal, a sample chapter, and several articles written between 1981 and 1983 on the rise of hip-hop. I marveled at the ways that these stories, written in a particular time period, helped bring figures like Afrika Bambaataa to life. I also felt as if I gained a deeper on-the-ground understanding of what was occurring in the Bronx in terms of gang warfare, drugs, and white flight than I had had previously. It also seemed that the rhetorical questions that Hager presented in his pitch about the meaning and impact of hip-hop remain alive and well today.

            For instance, the formal book proposal stated: “How did hip hop originate? Who are its principle innovators? What has its impact been on American culture? These are some of the questions that will be answered by ‘Bronx Beat’. It is the story of teenagers in the ghetto who have struggled to create something meaningful, artistic and exciting with their lives.”

            I typed this quote into my computer and underneath it typed a "note to self": I think these three questions continue to inform research project on hip-hop, including mine. "Teenagers in the ghetto" … translates now to "young people everywhere who are struggling to create something meaningful, artistic, and exciting with their lives."

            Hager was born in 1951. He began worked as a reporter for The New York Daily News in about 1978, and was laid off around mid-1981. At that point, he embarked on a freelance career and became more deeply involved in chronicling hip-hop's early roots. I began working in journalism in 1985, about a year or so after Hager's book was released. Reading through his stories, I recognized many conventions of journalistic writing that seemed particular to the "new journalism" forms of narrative of that time. I wondered why I hadn't known about Hager earlier or why his stories hadn't been used in the classes and writing workshops I attended through the 1980s and 1990s. As the afternoon wore on, I also started to detect in Hager's writings a narrative voice that tends to turn me off. It's hard to define that voice: male, a bit arrogant and authoritative, tough, boisterous.

            But I do look forward to digging out and finding the book.

Archiving Hip-hop

A piece of a Buddy Esquire event flyer that
illuminates the presence of locality in hip-
hop. (From Cornell University's Hip-Hop
Special Collection.)  

A portion of the Keep-Mills Research Grant that I received last year for my ongoing research on hip-hop was aimed at funding visits to a couple of the archival collections of hip-hop artifacts that some libraries are beginning to amass. I made the first of these visits this afternoon, traveling to Cornell University to visit its Hip-Hop Special Collection, which is housed in the university library's rare manuscripts collection.

            My visit was brief, and it hopefully will become the first of many. But before I describe the collection and my experience with it, I should offer a few qualifiers.

            The first is that even though my scholarly work does delve into history, library archives are not familiar places for me. The second qualifier is that I was unsure as to what I might find at Cornell that might be useful to me.

            I had met the collection's co-curators at NYU's Hip-Hop Education Center Think Tank in November 2012. We chatted briefly, and they both invited me to use the aspects of the archive that they had digitized via Internet and to follow up with them via e-mail if and when I decided to make a personal visit. I was impressed with the open-ness of the archive to researchers outside Cornell and did include a number of photographs of the 1970s Bronx and early hip-hop party flyers from the archive as visual materials in my course Hip-Hop America. Several months later, I met one of the curators at the Words Beats & Life teach-in in Washington DC, and re-introduced myself. By this point, I had figured out that I could combine a day trip to Ithaca, NY, with travel to the Imagining America conference in nearby Syracuse and mentioned that I would like to visit the archive and do some research in early October. She asked me what I was researching, and when I mentioned that I was hoping to develop a book based on the interviews I had done with b-girls in Seattle, she responded that she didn't know if the archive would be of any help to me because almost all of its materials had come from New York City. She mentioned the names of various individuals who had donated materials to the archive, and I said that I thought the material would be helpful anyway because it would deepen my understanding of hip-hop's roots. She invited me to follow-up with an e-mail, which I did after spending some time browsing their collections page to get a sense of what the archive held.

            Which bring me back to my first qualifier. The collections page indicated that the archive held hundreds of photographs, party flyers, video footage, record albums, tape cassettes, and images of graffiti. This seemed impressive, and a little overwhelming. My mind was going back to a presentation about archives that Dr. Kathy Ferguson, one of my doctoral committee members, had given at the Western Political Science Association in 2011 about her experiences of using archives in researching her wonderful biography of Emma Goldman. The archive, Ferguson said, was not a library. It was not an organized, catalogued experience. It was, in many cases, a mass of boxes, handwritten notes, and seemingly haphazard collections of personal materials and historic documents organized not with the research scholar in mind. Ferguson's description had rung through somewhat when I had first visited the Cornell hip-hop archive collection online. While I was careful to choose materials from the digitized resources for my course that I knew to be significant, I wondered what looking at scads of similar types of materials might accomplish. How much more could I learn from a party flyer that was circulated in the Bronx in the early 1980s, for instance?  These questions gained more currency as I wondered whether digging in archives was more useful for those with specific research questions or for those seeking a more general base of understanding.

            Cornell's Rare Manuscripts Collection asks that requests for specific boxes of items be made online at least a day in advance of a visit. Deciding that I would treat the visit as a sort of exploratory field trip, I filed requests for a half-dozen or so boxes, figuring that even if I only got through a couple of the items, I would be able to get a feel for what the archive held and how I might better understand it on return visits.

              At the collection's reading room itself, researchers are given access to one box of materials at a time. The first box that I opened was a box of flyers from the personal collection of Buddy Esquire, an artist who became known as "the flyer king" for the more than 300 flyers he produced between 1979 and 1984. At the top of the box lay an extra-large t-shirt, promoting one of the hip-hop events that Buddy Esquire created flyers for. I unfolded the shirt, and my eyes lit up. Immediately, I could see that this artifact itself illustrated the roles of locality, identity, and language in hip-hop. The shirt, like all of the flyers in the box, featured a black-and-white design. What stood out for me was Buddy Esquire's tag near the bottom of the design, illustrating his signature and thus his identity in hip-hop; and the fact that he included bus and subway directions to the event's venue, highlighting the sense of locality. The shirt would only make sense to someone familiar with the boroughs of New York City, and particularly the Bronx. It could not -- like so much of hip-hop's commodity products today -- hold market appeal (beyond perhaps historic or nostalgic interest) beyond that area. The flyers repeated this pattern as I went through them, photographing them with my iPhone. They called out the names of local DJs, high schools, and particular dates (like back-to-school, New Year's Day, and Christmas). I saw a link between these flyers and the materials that members of 206 Zulu had put together in a small hip-hop museum at Washington Hall in Seattle. Quickly, I could see how sitting with the flyers, sorting through them, and reflecting on the places, spaces, people, and specific events that they brought up filled an understanding of hip-hop that wasn't only global.

            The second box that I opened was a collection of magazines, brochures, postcards, and other materials donated by Jorge Fabon, who also is known as Popmaster Fabel. I had heard Fabon speak at the Words Beats & Life teach-in, and had attended a screening of his film-in-progress on his experiences as a gang member turned b-boy in Spanish Harlem. As a result, I was particularly interested in his collection.

            The first piece that I found in his box was, for me, a gem. It was not from Spanish Harlem but Seattle.

           "This is priceless!" I wrote in my notes. It was a Downtown Seattle Association brochure about the detrimental effects of graffiti. It contained a glossy picture of Seattle's downtown skyline and waterfront and a series of highly biased and distorted definitions of hip-hop, graffiti, crews, and tags. Not only did this brochure offer an insight into the relationship between the elite business sector and the grassroots arts movements in Seattle. It also offered a powerful teaching tool for students seeking an understanding of how corporate and commercial interests have co-opted and corrupted hip-hop.

            Much of Fabon's other materials dealt with the performance group GhettOriginal, which created a Broadway show Jam on the Groove that toured internationally. The box also held magazines that included features or interviews with him on hip-hop dance that were published in South Africa and on the West Coast in the 1990s. Holding these materials in my hands and thumbing through the pages in the quiet space of the reading room helped me see something that statements repeatedly made about hip-hop's power as an international movement could not: the real impact that recognition of talent had had on the men and women who as teenagers had pioneered the movement. The articles and accompanying photographs showed how widely known and revered these figures had become, and offered a sense of how much their messages of the often harsh conditions in which they lived resonated throughout the world.

            Dr. Ferguson had emphasized the importance of creating your own system of library cataloguing in using archives. What I found with this first trip to the Cornell hip-hop collection was that the cataloguing found its own order, based on what I knew previously about the history of hip-hop and what I had been told by others but had not fully understood for myself. My challenge now rests in making the knowledge that emerges from this experience translatable to others. I look forward to the next step. 

A few thoughts on how hip-hop works

My work with hip-hop over the past few weeks has been focused on drafting what my Hip-Hop Education Center "Def" Committee colleagues have described as the "foundation" for a document defining key terms within Hip-Hop Pedagogy for a think tank gathering at the Schomburg in Harlem on Nov. 9-10. Our committee work began in March, and has taken place mostly via monthly (and sometimes weekly) conference calls and video-chats via Google Hangout. At some point in the game, around early May to be exact, I offered to begin synthesizing the ideas and thoughts that were accumulating in a Google Docs file that our committee moderator created as a shared electronic space for us to work in. From that point onward, I became deeply vested in the process of trying to understand what being a college faculty member and teaching about and through hip-hop actually meant. The drafting work (which I'm tempted to put in quotation marks because it feels like the document that currently exists is the product of many more hours than one might associate with a draft) culminated more or less with a phone call Thursday with one of my colleagues on the committee, whose hip-hop name is Blue Black. The phone call, like so many "ahh-ha" moments that occurred during the past five months, gave me a sudden and refreshingly new perspective on how hip-hop works.

Before I go further, a little bit of back story might help. Our committee consisted of three faculty members, a high school teacher, and a newly minted PhD holder as well as an associate director of the Hip-Hop Education Center at New York University and one emcee/community organizer. The latter individual was Blue Black.

I am, of course, one of the three faculty members. I felt honored to be a part of the committee and at the same time somewhat anxious. I was not sure what my place in hip-hop was or if I could be regarded legitimately as an expert on hip-hop. Sure, I'd received a couple grants for my work, had had articles and essays published in both scholarly and general interest publications, and had developed an online course for my college that carries the same title as this blog. But did I know hip-hop? Was I hip-hop? How would I know?

Blue Black raised the stakes of the conversation during our second conference call. Positioning himself as the practitioner who stood outside the academy, he began questioning the premise of hip-hop education from the get-go. Hip-hop has its own way of teaching and learning, he asserted. Hip-hop didn't need the Academy. What was the Academy's motive in trying to create hip-hop?

Defending the Academy, I noted that there were both college administrators and faculty members whose values resonated with ideas of self-knowledge, the acquisition of valuable skills through training in the arts of hip-hop, and valuing the gifts that students held inside them as contributors to the learning community of the classroom. I also noted that I had evaluated some requests for college credit through learning that had occurred outside the classroom (or prior learning assessment) in hip-hop and had found that the knowledge that the students brought approximated what they might learn in a college class. Blue Black's response to this was, "Prior Learning, I dig that. But that's still serving the Academy, not hip-hop."

Blue Black's words struck a hidden nerve, much as a Hawaiian graduate student did back in 1997 when she responded to my questioning of the value of teaching oral traditions with a retort that "we (meaning Hawaiians) don't want you in our community." Both the Hawaiian student and Blue Black were speaking truth to power, and, in the process, I was seeing myself quite uncomfortably in a position I didn't like. In both cases, I was speaking from a privileged position and had revealed how being in that position had given me the ability to deny (or simply not see) how powerful institutions of education could demean the marginalized. In both cases, the pill they tossed me was quite hard to swallow because I had felt that as a woman of color I, too, was of the "minority" contingent in society and therefore an ally. But, of course, being of brown skin does not automatically make one an ally.

I left the call feeling that my heart had turned to lead. A long overdue revision of an essay for a book on teaching practices ground to a halt as questioned what I was doing and pondered how I could share hip-hop with others if I was in the position of the privileged and didn't understand it all that well myself. At the same time, I knew I couldn't back out. I am a believer in the idea that one learns as one teaches, and I had entered hip-hop as a teacher who sought to learn. So, if this was learning, I wanted to experience it, even if it made me feel rather small.

The next call came and our very efficient and supportive moderator suggested we start with a discussion of where we were at with the terms. I chimed in quickly, saying that we'd covered some sensitive topics in the last call and that perhaps it might make sense to check in on those points first. The conversation that ensued broke the heaviness, and created an environment where we, as a committee, were able to start doing what hip-hop refers to as "building". Barriers had been broken, so in the ruins we could, like hip-hop did in the early 1970s, plunge into the rubble and start to create something new.

Writing and editing (which might be thought of as another form of compiling and smoothing out the thoughts of many into one) is a strength for me, and a tool for learning. So I offered at the end of the call to begin pulling together a draft of what had been contributed to date. The draft evolved through June, into July and August, and finally the first week of September. I worked with words offered in the Google Docs file by others, ideas and issues that were voiced in conference calls, and with documents, readings, and narratives that Blue Black began sending me and some others via e-mail. As I worked, I found myself swinging like a pendulum between two emotional extremes: On one end, I felt pride in what I was doing and the document that was emerging and on the other hand, I felt like I was asserting too much authority. I tried to step out of the authoritarial position on several occasions, hoping others would seize the reins. But nobody did. And deadlines being deadlines, we had a draft to finish.

Then, came the call on Thursday with Blue Black and the insight into how hip-hop works.

"What you have done, or what you and I have done is the first step," he said. "We have built the foundation. Now, it's time to let everyone else have at it, with their comments and their critiques, and to then have someone else build from there."

Build, destroy, build. That's the process of creating something new. That's the logic of hip-hop; its rules, its procedure.

The insight offers great peace when I place it in the context of both academic and other metaphors. In academia, deconstructionists break down the congealed relationships of power within such nuggets of knowledge as "facts" and "isms", with a goal -- often forgotten in the brilliance of the breakdown -- of reconstruction from there. In sports, coaches work athletes hard in order to break the inhibitions that reside within their bodies so the athletes can understand what is possible. In Seattle, b-girls Naj and Bean both shared with me stories of how they both went bald trying to learn how to spin on their heads. In the process, they noticed that they were the only women at the breakdancing practices and in noticing this point they also started to see how women were systematically categorized as weak, incapable, and unworthy across multiple sectors of society. B-girling showed them what they -- as women -- were capable of achieving and has made them both into powerful leaders in Seattle's community based hip-hop scene today. What the metaphors suggest parallels what my doctoral advisor once said: If you're feeling uncomfortable, that's good. It means you're thinking critically. It means you're going through growth.

The Hawaiian graduate student's comments "broke me" in 1997, and in doing so, helped me understand how to build a scholarly life centered on a commitment to continue to learn to listen as much as possible, particularly to those who in the past have not been in a privileged space to speak. Blue Black's comments in 2013 "broke me" again. In doing so, they helped me understand how being up front about what I know and what I do not know facilitates the process of learning and, at the same time, of teaching. It is from this space that I look forward to the next steps of building within hip-hop.

Organizing Principles

(You also can find this post on my blog about Writing and Storytelling, available at http://himaneeguptacarlson.blogspot.com)


I'm attending the Rensselaerville Writers Festival as I write this post, and during a morning workshop, a reference to walking came up. Workshop facilitator Peter Trachtenberg was leading us through an exercise of discovering affiliations and passions, and points and places in life where those affiliations and passions converge. He suggested -- in a delightful way in which he hinted that the idea had just come to him -- that this is the point where one should begin to write.

I loved the suggestion because I realized that one affiliation and one passion on my list converged with a point and a place in life that would help me wrap up my writing on my soon-to-be completed book manuscript, and that a second affiliation and passion converged with the same place but a different point in a way that might provide the perfect entry point for my second book project. What's relevant to this essay is that the place of convergence in both instances was Seattle, which brings me to walking.

Writing workshops usually include a certain amount of sharing among participants, either of writing generated in prompts during the workshop or of work prepared beforehand to be brought in for discussion. The only writing we did in this workshop was the lists of affiliations, passions, points, and places so that's what we shared. Time was short so we were only allowed to share one.

When a participant shared walking as a passion, I realized that walking also was a passion for me even though I hadn't put it on my list (opting for running and bicycling and swimming more generally). I also realized that it underscored the passion I did share out loud -- making things myself, creating something out of nothing -- that I shared, and that walking was tied up intrinsically in the affiliation I shared, of writer. Walking also took me to Seattle, which was the place where I realized that many years earlier I had begun walking first as a matter of course, then as a vehicle for discovery, which evolved into curiosity and inquiry, and ultimately into an organizing principle for life. Trachtenberg suggested that when something becomes an organizing principle in life, it can serve also as a guiding force for writing, moving the pen and the narrative through rain, snow, sunshine, clouds, sleet, and wind toward destinations that might be unknown at the moment but become clearer as the principle's organizing logic unfolds.

I think I can trace the start of my walking to an impulse that has kick-started many other endeavors in life: a desire to be less wasteful and to save money. I used to work at The Seattle Times and paid $20 a month (yes, seriously, in 1989, that is how much I paid) to park my car in a lot three blocks from the newsroom. At some point, the parking fee went up, and I decided that since I actually lived less than a mile from the newsroom, I could give up my parking spot and walk to work. I did need my car on days that I had interviews or other out-of-the-office commitments, but for years I was able to manage to find street parking anywhere from one to eight blocks from the newsroom.

At first, my walks were fairly straightforward treks down the hill from my apartment to the newsroom, but over time evolved into longer and wider breadths that took me across unfamiliar streets and into new neighborhoods. The walks sometimes helped me discover new styles of landscaping, new activities or new projects and translated from there into stories for the newspaper.

The practice stretched away from Seattle and into new cities that I would visit, both inside and outside the U.S. My boyfriend and I at the time often organized our weekend jaunts around walking treks and labeled ourselves urban walkers.

In graduate school in Honolulu, walking became a way to ease stress, to understand urban life in the islands, and often to get exercise. I remember one time period in 2000 when a series of life-changing events occurred, throwing me into a crisis of self-doubt. Walking through the crisis introduced me to people who began walking with me and sharing their stories of personal strife, of asking me to talk to them about Marxism and colonialism (after they found out I was a graduate student). Walking through the crisis also helped me save my own life. Walking in 2000 led to running, and to my first marathon.

When I moved back to Seattle in 2006 with my husband, we did so without a car. The 1988 Honda Civic that I had bought new when I had moved from Kansas City to Seattle died with 217,000 miles on its odometer and went to the Honolulu office of the National Kidney Foundation as a donation. A couple of other clunkers we owned briefly also went to the donate-able scrap heap. We figured we could get around Seattle with buses, bicycles, and our feet -- and until I began teaching in the outer suburbs of the city, we did. And even after we got a car -- a 1990 Volvo for $500 -- we continued to walk as much as we could.

The post-2006 walks got me through two more marathons, and numerous part-time and contract jobs. They opened my eyes constantly to changing conditions in Seattle and to the shocking state of the devolution of daily life in our post-industrial era. They also exposed me to expressions of hope: plum trees growing in the inner-city, wild blackberries, public art of both the legal and illegal kind, impromptu music and dance, and ultimately hip-hop. Hip-hop artists showed me how, in a changing society, one could sustain a good life, reinvent one's self, and continue to create something new. In my head, I often felt like a parenting voice questioning the artists' motives: Shouldn't you be getting a "real job" with all that talent? Where is your passion for dance or for music going to lead? If I voiced the questions out loud, the artists would laugh and mutter something about eventually "teaching or leading workshops or doing something like that" when they had figured it all out. Truth was, they had sort of figured a lot of things out, and they were teaching me that I, the middle-aged professional struggling to pay a mortgage, that I could figure it out, too.

Three weeks ago, I went back to Seattle to reconnect with the city, some of the artists I had interviewed, and the manifestations of hip-hop I had discovered. My goal in going back was to begin pulling together ideas and materials for a book that would somehow weave together hip-hop, b-girls, race politics, Seattle, and my experience of being a part of the city. I knew even before I began planning the trip that I would walk. I would walk everywhere.  I would eschew rides from friends and rental cars. I would even avoid taking the bus as much as possible. I wasn't sure why I would be walking.

Today, I realized I walked then and I walk now because it is an organizing principle in life.

Hip-hop and training, sustainably

        Tonight is one of the nights where I am cross-posting on blogs. This entry makes sense as a report on hip-hop, a report on health and fitness, and finally a reflection on sustainability. It is a little incomplete because it is coming the night before a triathlon that I signed up on February 1 to compete in. I should put compete in quotation marks, because, really, the only person I am competing with is myself.

     
       As I mull the triathlon, a poem I wrote three years ago comes to mind. It's entitled "B-Girl Warrior" and celebrates the b-girls I met and got to know in Seattle in 2008-10. Here it is:

The b-girl seethes, like a warrior.

She lets nothing show.

Her moves are like the white crane spreading its wings,
stretching past its earthly limits.

But her smile shines down to earth,
upon those the world ignores.

What does she battle?

Frustration?

Injustice?

She won’t let on.

She’s a warrior;

She lets nothing show.

At the cipher edge, she stands, cross-armed, waiting, watching,
hinting that she has a plan.

But until she answers the call
and steps into the ring,

nothing shows.

  I need to be clear that as much as I would like to call myself a b-girl, I do not feel I can lay claim to that title. I do not battle in the way that these warrior women do. But I do draw a great deal of inspiration from them, which fed my training for the triathlon. I am sort of impressed with my competitor self: In the months between February and July, I lost eight pounds, and increasingly began to feel like the lean mean fighting machine that I've aspired for years to become. Giving up a big vice -- drinking wine and other alcoholic beverages --  has made a big difference. So has getting the full eight hours of sleep, and so has being resolute with my training.

       I have been thinking, of late, of how my work with hip-hop and my training are connected, and how that connection nurtures an understanding of community building that is such an underlying component of sustainability. I always worked out, and I always felt that exercise was an important component to living a good healthy life. But I do feel like it took on a new dimension this year, gaining a level of seriousness and commitment that I didn't have with it previously.

       I have been thinking of asking a colleague who I met through the Hip-Hop Education Center at NYU, if he would be willing to serve as a mentor for me in hip-hop. The individual is a few years younger than me but much older than me in his understanding of the community-based wisdom that emerges through hip-hop. I thought that one question that he might ask is what I think I might need a mentor for. I guess there's a few responses that I could give to answer this question.

       The first and perhaps the most obvious is that I would like to have someone to guide me toward gaining a deeper realization of the oppositional consciousness that lies at the core of how one thinks about knowledge (or the fifth element) through hip-hop. I hear and appreciate the importance of academic types being in touch with communities, and at the same time I feel that looking at my own community -- predominantly (but not entirely) white, rural, and traditionally grounded in the trades of farming, trapping, hunting, fishing, and logging -- requires an oppositional consciousness that is not traditionally associated with hip-hop. Now, I could drive the hour to Albany or Schenectady to find hip-hop, but would that be my community or would it be constructing something artificial? I also could move. But the fact of the matter is that I chose to live in the place where I live. Not because I detest cities; on the contrary, I love cities and miss many aspects of the deeply urban environments where I used to live. We chose to live in the country because we wanted to grow food, we wanted to have the space to make art, and, well, truth be told, I think we wanted some peace and quiet. In a society that continues to harshly judge interracial relationships, female-breadearners and stay-at-home males, and desires to do daily life differently, we wanted to be left alone.

  I have a different sort of community via social networks. I have friends all over the world, and colleagues and like-minded allies in many different places. An increasingly large number of these individuals are associated with hip-hop. When we get together on Google Hangout calls, through Facebook, and face-to-face at conferences or hip-hop events, the interaction and exchange is refreshing. I think that community is an important one to build. But I also look at where I'm at, and I think it's important to build in the place where I'm at, too.

      Artists and intellects have always -- let me revise that to often -- sought refuge in nature. B-Girl Naj, one of my first connections to the hip-hop community in Seattle, liked practicing outdoors, even as she professed not to really feel at one with nature. Some of her favorite memories were of getting into a car with her crew members and driving out to a park or beach, and then setting up a stereo and getting down with the moves. She particularly loved it when a crowd would gather to watch the group dance, and once in awhile, they would put out a hat, which always resulted in some extra income for their effort.

  There is peace in coming home to a quiet place, where I hear owls, see deer, and occasionally smell skunk. There is peace in spending a day under the summer's heat pulling weeds, and gathering vegetables from my backyard to make into meals. There is peace in training on roads around my house, where "around-the-block" usually means at least a four-mile loop. It would be nice to have nearby lakes or clean ponds in which to swim right around the block, but they are in fairly good supply, just a few miles.

  The discipline of training is about helping me become a better person. Training keeps me off alcohol, and encourages me to cultivate vegetables, raise hens for eggs, and to support local farmers by purchasing the meat that they raise, usually in kind and sustainable ways. Training also helps me write better, and with more discipline because when I sit down at the computer, I do so with a healthier state of mind as well as a stronger body. Writing can be an exhaustive process, especially if you're not writing with discipline or with an end goal to build.

Building Community and the Fifth Element

            I am writing this post on about four hours of sleep, plane sleep. I boarded my flight out of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport at about 11 p.m., and happily fell into a good hard sleep within about 15 minutes. I was jolted awake when the plane wheels thudded the ground in Detroit, some four and a half hours later. Still, a hard sleep of a few hours is better than no sleep. My husband texted me as the connecting flight landed in Albany to say that he was just leaving. That has given me an hour in Albany to collect my thoughts before heading up to Lake Placid to volunteer for the Ironman.

            I was thinking about what kind of sense to make of Boogie Up the Block, the big Seattle community hip-hop festival that capped my week of walking, wondering, and doing other kinds of ethnographic research in the city. The big event was not so big after all, and many of the female artists whom I had hoped to catch up with were not present. It was a beautiful sunny day, and a pleasure to be outdoors. But I wasn't feeling particularly moved by the music on stage, or by the break-dancing occurring in sporadic ciphers on the streets. I found myself feeling a little lost: It took a lot of time and money to get here. Was it a waste of time?

            Considering this question led me to consider a variety of factors: work and other community based obligations that kept the b-girls I had hoped to see away from the event; my own work and prior commitment to volunteer at the Lake Placid Ironman that prevented me from staying in Seattle an additional day to attend their signature event -- an all women's break-dancing battle -- organized by Bean, one of my initial interviewees; and the work of parenting and making a living that had made it challenging for my potential co-author for the book I hope to write to meet up. It also took me back to an all women's reading and hip-hop event I had created in 2010 as part of an Individual Artist's Grant I had received from the Seattle Mayor's Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs. I poured a lot of energy into creating the event; worked closely with emcee Beloved1 and deejay DJ B-Girl (Mia Beardsley) to organize a plan; and negotiated dates and times with about nine different artists in order to come up with a day that would work for everyone. I created an eye-catching poster and flyer, promoted the event via Facebook, stapled my flyers all over central Seattle, wrote a press release that the Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs distributed to media, and even wrote a piece for public media about the women I had interviewed who would perform. The event drew about 30 people, most of who were the performers, two videographers I had hired, and our friends and family members. All the work. Thirty people. Somehow, it still felt like a success.

            This made me think about how hip-hop works out what it calls the Fifth Element in a community setting.

            To clarify some language, the culture of hip-hop has been defined in terms of components: break-dancing (or, more accurately, within hip-hop circles, b-boying and b-girling), emceeing (also known as rapping, either inaccurately or accurately, depending on who you talk to), deejaying, graffiti, and the Fifth Element of knowledge. The Fifth Element is a term coined by Afrika Bambaataa, founder of the Universal Zulu Nation. He articulated it as a process of self-development and individual transformation. The Fifth Element infuses all of the other elements -- which are seen as more skill-based -- and it also stands apart as the work from which a philosophy of hip-hop might emerge.

            For the past three years, much of my work with hip-hop has been academic in nature. I have been in dialogue with hip-hop scholars and practitioners at conferences such as the Words Beats & Life teach-in earlier this month in Washington DC. I have read books and articles that have emerged out of hip-hop studies, and I have contributed to the field with academic writings of my own. One of the most fulfilling endeavors to date has been participating in a committee organized by Martha Diaz of the Hip-Hop Education Center at New York University to create a set of defining terms for hip-hop education in college and K-12 curricula. These dialogues have been heavy on word power, verbal exchange, and thought. They are not the types of conversations that might occur easily in a community setting.

            Which led me to wonder: How was the Fifth Element present at Boogie Up the Block? In many ways, it had to be present, if for no other reason than the fact that its main organizer was 206 Zulu, the Seattle branch of Bambaataa's brainchild, the Universal Zulu Nation.

            Considering that question reshaped my understanding of the event considerably.

            On what I'll call an umbrella level, the Fifth Element was present in the array of participants. I spoke during the first two hours of the event with a 206 Zulu member who worked with the organization's security as well as with an activist seeking citizen input on alternatives to juvenile detention. I also reconnected with a b-boy who serves as a pastor and owns a coffeeshop in my former Central District neighborhood, located at 25th and Union.  He remembered me as the woman who "did the project on Seattle b-girls" and was pleased when I told him that I was still working on it. He also told me about some of his work as a volunteer with a project known as the Seattle Green Plate, which had turned a corner plot of vacant land at the busy Union Street and Martin Luther King Way intersection into a garden that provided produce to the homeless and educational outreach to schoolchildren. I also toured a community P-Patch across the street from 206 Zulu's headquarters at Washington Hall, noting how the fence surrounding this community garden was like a teaching museum. It displayed placards and images of community history, mentors to future musicians such as Quincy Jones, and traced the legacy of Seattle's style of small-ensemble jazz to racism, segregationist practices, and the relatively small size of the African American community relative to other towns where a "big band" style became the norm.

            As I spoke with community workers and toured the garden, other dialogues and interactions were taking place around me. We might see these interchanges as expressions of the Fifth Element as each individual sought new knowledge for their own growth. These dialogues took place against a backdrop that a history of cultural form and artistic expression has come to define as hip-hop: deejays and emcees on an outdoor stage on one side of Washington Hall, a mobile stage with skateboarding ramp and cardboard duct-taped together to create a dance space on the street to the opposite side. Amid bicycles, detouring cars, and pedestrians, children and young adults formed ciphers. Some of the dancing was like mine – on the side of the cipher, legs and hips bopping but not much else in the way of body movement. Other dancers were down on the ground, following the traditional break-dance routine of top-rocking, power and finish, and practicing the call and response logic of the cipher to invite others in.

            There wasn’t a whole lot of cohesion, but there was a sense of understanding and of respect that everyone was at the event to build community and to engage in some way or the other with the Fifth Element, to learn.

            In the middle of festival lay one final – and perhaps the most powerful – element: an altar for Trayvon Martin, the African American teenager in Florida who was killed by the white security guard, George Zimmerman. The security guard, of course, was acquitted by a jury whose rationale for the decision was grounded in a racially coded understanding of right and wrong. Zimmerman, according to one juror, was only guilty of making a bad judgment in pulling his trigger. The fact that an African American boy was killed as a result of that “bad judgment” offers a reminder of how the real lives of the peoples of the communities that hip-hop strives to uplift continue to bear ongoing societal assaults.

Hip-Hop and Health

(A quick note: I work with several blogs, because my blogging tends to cross a variety of different topics, and I have not yet figured out how to build coherence into these topics in a way that I think I could create and maintain a single source. Sometimes, however, the topics inter-cross. So, accordingly, the report below also is available to view at http://movingyourbody.wordpress.com/2013/07/27/movements-in-the-city/)



The countdown to the Fronhofer Tool Triathlon is now exactly one week. If I had been training for this event a few years earlier, I would be feeling some major stress. Instead, I feel an incredible sense of well-being and relaxation. I don't know what the outcome of the triathlon will be, but I do know that I plan to be at the starting line and will do the best that I can.

I have been in Seattle since the night of Monday, July 22. Sunday, July 21, was supposed to be a three-event brick workout, but turned out to be mainly a day of harvesting garlic, doing laundry, and running errands. Friday, July 20, was an unbelievably hot day, so instead of doing the three-event brick that I'd hoped, I ended up settling for a fairly long swim in the cool indoor pool. The upshot of all of this: the last time I ran was about nine days ago; the last time I bicycled was about ten days ago. I will hope to get some running and biking workouts in early next week, but I also know that at this point the best thing I can do for my body is make sure I stay hydrated, well-nourished, and rested.

So why am I not stressed out?

Well, the week in Seattle turned out to be glorious. Every day that I was here (including the Monday night when I got in close to midnight) was clear, sunny, and hot but not too hot. Mount Rainier graced the skyline every day, and the only reason that I did not see the Space Needle was that I didn't look in its direction. My gaze was fixed toward the south and east parts of the central city, where my research on hip-hop and community building is based, and where some of the city's best walking routes and swimming beaches are located.

Having lived in Seattle from 1988-95 and again from 2006-10, I know that the sunshine and summer glory that I experienced this week has been a gift as summers here can be cloudy, gray, and never get warm enough. If you have a good summer, you need to take advantage of it, as much as you can. So, I swam in Lake Washington four days this week, and I walked and walked and walked: 6.5 miles on Tuesday, 5 miles on Wednesday, 7 miles on Thursday, and 9.3 miles on Friday. I probably will walk another two miles today, and I probably walked about one-and-a-half miles on Monday. This walking, coupled with the 30 to 45 minute swims that I did each day in the lake, feels like it might have been one of the best tapers for a big sporting event that I, in my current physical condition, could have pulled off.

I received a second gift in Seattle as I encountered old friends and acquaintances. On previous trips back to my old hometown, I have worried quite a bit about the health of the people I know as well as the long-term health of the communities in which they reside. Seattle, for all of its glamor, is a rather divided city, stratified somewhat on the basis of race as well as its perpetual cross-cutting intersections with class. A ship canal that links Lake Washington to the Puget Sound divides the city into north and south segments. Research on the health of the city was beginning to show in the first decade of the twenty-first century that obesity rates south of the ship canal were considerably higher than those north. It is perhaps no coincidence that the southern areas have proportionally higher racial and ethnic minority populations, and house the high number of new immigrants and refugees who sought sanctuary in this generally liberal city in the 1970s through early 2000s. It is perhaps also no coincidence that the southern parts of the city historically have had fewer parks and easily accessible outdoor exercise spots, and that the economic demographics of the neighborhoods south of the ship canal are considerably poorer.

I always lived south of the ship canal, and for sixteen years owned a house in Seattle in its historic Central District. As a young adult who loved being out on the town in her twenties and as a slightly older person who loved building community via backyard barbecues and late-night strolls through the inner city, I always loved the mix of urban vibrancy and nature that I felt I could find in the central city. In my latter years, my passion for the south part of the city has translated into a rather unfair but frank dislike for the northern neighborhoods. I apologize to friends who live in these areas, but I find them too quiet, too plain, and too fearful of difference.

So, to the point of the gift. Absence always makes the heart grow fonder. And working vacations in a city that one knows very well perhaps create a rosier-than-thou lens for viewing change. Those disclaimers in place, my walks and my encounters with people I knew and places I feel affinity with showed me a place that had regained a sense of good health and vitality for life. People were thinner and smiling more. Beaches were filled with swimmers. Walking paths had been better marked, and sidewalks seemed to be in much better shape than I'd remembered.

I was pleased, and also perplexed.

"You look great," I remarked to Brian McGuigan, of the Richard Hugo House.

"You look great, too," he responded.

We both really meant what we said, because the truth is, we both looked as if we had been taking care of ourselves.

"Everyone I keep running into looks great," I added. "What's up with that?"

He laughed and shrugged. "We don't want to die yet," he surmised.

The health of a community runs deep in my understanding of hip-hop. Browsing books in the African American collection of the Douglass Truth Library yesterday, I found a text entitled Foundation, by Joseph Schloss, who described himself as an out-of-shape white professor in his thirties before he began hanging out with b-boys and b-girls. They invited him to practices, and before long, he was learning the basics of break-dancing. I didn't have enough time to read far enough into the book to see if he stayed with the discipline, but he did note around page 20 or so, that after six months of break-dancing practices he was at a much healthier weight and in the best shape of his life.

My motive in walking the city was about my own health, but it also was about understanding -- or trying to detect, at least -- an intersection between hip-hop and its impact on city life. What I saw in my excursions up and down hills, through highly urban and densely populated communities was a city: decay, revitalization, despair, and increasingly hope. One can walk and munch on wild blackberries that populated the brush overhanging sidewalks. One can cross a street full of traffic, noise, and urban pollution into a quiet neighborhood where pumpkins are forming on vines in a garden placed in the middle of a sidewalk. And one can cross from a crowded street into a small forest within a few blocks. And throughout these areas one also can see the traces of hip-hop: flyers promoting events, community groups organizing for racial justice, music pulsating from car stereos and area businesses, gardens being maintained for feeding the hungry and educating school-goers. I hope to report on this more in future posts, but I do think that these healthful roots are a part and parcel of how we might articulate an understanding of hip-hop and health for the present and future.

Sustaining the city

Day 5 of the Seattle trip. Tonight was the beginning of the Boogie Down the Block party at Washington Hall, an all ages Graff Jam Party hosted by 206 Zulu. I went, expecting a lot of children and a large crowd. I found a rather low-key, mellow event: a few men working with black books around a table, and Bean, one of the first b-girls I interviewed, in the parking lot with Snap1, a b-girl who had flown in from Alaska to compete in the all-women's battle scheduled for Sunday, setting up.

Low key was lovely. It gave my rather shy self a way to slide in, and begin to get a feel for one of the groups of people and spaces that give hip-hop in this city its pulsating energy.

Bean gave me a warm enthusiastic hug when she saw me, and began to apologize for not keeping me abreast on the all-women's hip-hop battle she has organized with her husband Pele for the past three years, the Queen on Queen. She confessed to me that she wasn't sure that there would be a budget for the event until just a few weeks ago.

I told her not to worry, and that it was great to just see her and reconnect. She had just come from teaching a break-dancing workshop to ten-year-old girls and was doing a hip-hop camp next week.

As we talked, a van blasting music in a sort of 21st century version of Kool Herc's car and big speakers pulled up. Both b-girls Bean and Snap1 exclaimed with joy as they heard the music and began dancing in the street. The van had banners for Boogie Down the Block plastered all over it, and had been creating a mobile flash mob to promote the event in the central city the weekend before. The operator explained that he drove the van around town promoting products for clients and had been providing informal "pre-entertainment" to the crowd that gathered on Broadway a few days earlier for the Macklemore video shoot.

Washington Hall is at 14th Avenue and Yesler Way. This corner has a bit of a reputation as being one of the most down-and-out intersections in Seattle, and many of the qualities associated with "down-and-out" continue to characterize the block. There is no shortage of graffiti tags. There is public housing. The juvenile detention center is nearby. The sound of police and ambulance sirens often pierces the air.

But the corner feels safe. It also feels welcoming, and as if it is ready to take on life. Much more than the stilted, staid blocks that led up to Madison Park Beach. Much more than the trendy, crowded row of restaurants and bars that lined 12th Avenue on the south side of Capitol Hill.

The sense of safety, welcome, and life-giving energy is a vibe that I felt in my walks through Seattle numerous times this week. It seemed somewhat random, and concentrated in a few places: around 7th Avenue and King, around 24th Avenue and Spring, at Broadway and Denny by the post office, and now at 14th and Yesler. These were all places in the city where hip-hop was in the house: the Massive Monkees dance studio is at 7th and King; Umoja Peace Center is at 24th and Spring; Macklemore fans were hanging near Broadway and Denny, which also was the site of at least two anti-establishment flag burnings in 1989 and 1991; and 206 Zulu, the local chapter of the Universal Zulu Nation, has made its home base at Washington Hall.

Bean, Snap and I headed inside. At the "black book" writers bench table, Khazm, the head of 206 Zulu, was working with graf. Bean explained that after Washington Hall had become a historic building, it had been opened up to community groups. 206 Zulu was one of the anchor tenants, which is a change from the time that I first became acquainted with it in 2010. The group previously met at an Eritrean restaurant, and organized practice sessions for b-boying/b-girling, emceeing, deejaying, and graffiti writing at different locales throughout Seattle. Its community educational and entertainment events would migrate from one location to the next.

"Now," says Bean. "It's all here. Washington Hall is like a second home."

Opening the door to a room that is to become a future coffeehouse, Bean showed off 206 Zulu's hip-hop museum. Snap1 and I both exclaimed in delight. The room was filled with memorabilia of Seattle hip-hop events: posters for shows, promotional postcards, pictures of record covers, a turntable, scratched records.

"I want to make this my room," exclaimed Snap1. "It's just so dope."

I still struggle with hip-hop slang, but I agree with her assessment. Spaces like Washington Hall often rot into oblivion. As old buildings, they need a lot of maintenance, and resources for such work are often limited. As the buildings rot, so do their neighborhoods. Making space for hip-hop community groups reverses that process.

Waterfront Park

I've been in Seattle for three full days. It feels like I've been doing a lot, and simultaneously not enough. I've been following a plan that that I more or less laid out before I came here. The plan was to do the kind of research that is really place-specific, the kind of research that you cannot rely on library books, journal articles, or telephone calls and videoconferencing to handle. I've been walking the major arterials that criss-cross the central city, connecting the shores of Puget Sound on the west to those of Lake Washington on the east. I've been visiting museums, and I've been swimming a lot, and journaling. I've just been keeping my eyes open, trying to take in all that I can.

It feels a little trivial on the surface because I'm not talking to people, conducting formal interviews, or visiting hip-hop centers. That work was done earlier, and will take place a little more tomorrow and Saturday when the Boogie Down the Block festival formally begins. I think it's useful work, however, and that the usefulness will start to be more apparent later when I'm back in New York, piecing it all together and trying to see what I've got.

So today, I met an old friend for lunch at the Pike Place Market. We ended up eating at a bistro type place of his choice that was opposite Waterfront Park, a stretch of urban grassland that abuts Puget Sound along Western Avenue. Beloved One, an emcee who is quite active in 206 Zulu and the hip-hop community locally, joined us near the tail end of lunch. Afterwards, she and I walked over to Waterfront Park to chat. As we walked, I remembered a story that Piece, a well known poet and emcee, had shared with me in February 2010. She was a child in the early 1980s, and her older brothers were responsible for baby-sitting her. They didn't want to hang around at home with a kid sister, so they dragged her onto the bus down to Waterfront Park. They'd set up a cipher and start rapping or breaking, hoping to pick up some change. One day, one of the brothers threw Piece into the cipher, telling her at age six to just say her name and that she was born in the month of May. She complied and had no idea what to do next. Impulsively, she said, "Everybody, clap your hands." To her amazement, people began clapping. That, she told me, was when she realized that she had the power to move the crowd.

If my memory is correct, these visits to Waterfront Park would have occurred in 1985-86, or so, about two years before I moved to Seattle to take a job at The Seattle Times. Sitting n the grass today at Waterfront Park, I imagined such a scene taking place. Waterfront Park is a social place, smushed between what's known as the downtown waterfront and the Pike Place Market. From our vantage point on the grass, Beloved One and I could see Mount Rainier gleaming in the sun to our left and the Washington State Ferries traversing the Sound between the docks in downtown Seattle and those for Bainbridge and Vashon islands. Against the backdrop, vendors give away free drinks as promotions and slice up sample slices of apples, peaches, and apricots. In the meantime, people like a palm reader who hailed Beloved One do what she described as "working the hustle."

Working the hustle lay at the roots of the entrepreneurial spirit of hip-hop. Far, far removed from the glitz of the cameras and limousine that accompanied current superstar Macklemore as he went down Broadway last night, the entrepreneurial spirit was about creating something from nothing. Piece not only learned from her childhood visits to Waterfront Park that she could move the crowd; she also learned that the dimes, quarters, and dollar bills tossed into the hat at her feet held value. It was extra spending money, which b-boy Crazy Legs of the Rock Steady Crew described at the Words Beats & Life teach-in earlier this month, as being a way to avoid having to eat the free-lunch provided for needy children at the local schools. Later, it came to stand for income -- sometimes a supplement, sometimes an essential, but always welcomed.

Beloved One grew up in Ballard, north of the ship canal, in an area that traditionally has been dominated by Scandinavians. It is quieter and much more residential than the neighborhoods south of the ship-canal.  She listened with interest as I described the flag burnings that took place along Broadway in 1988 and 1991. "I was nine," she said. "I had no idea."

On Broadway

Tonight, I hung out on Capitol Hill, which in the late 1980s and early 1990s was ranked as one of the most population dense neighborhoods west of Minneapolis. I lived off Broadway from 1988 to 1993 in a three-story walk-up apartment called The Karma House. It sat on a quiet oasis two blocks east of Broadway, wedged between Thomas and John, major arterials through Capitol Hill  and the next neighborhood up, known as Madison Valley. Even though I ultimately bought a house in the Central District and consider that neighborhood my Seattle home, a big piece of my heart belongs to Capitol Hill. I feel that the blocks between Broadway and Martin Luther King Way comprise a piece of physical geography that I know better than any other place on the planet.

Tonight, my time on Capitol Hill began with a writer's happy hour at the Richard Hugo House, a literary center at 11th and Pine, abutting the Cal Anderson Park, where I used to run laps. Cal Anderson, by the way, was the first openly gay state representative in Washington. He represented what was perhaps one of the most gay-friendly neighborhoods north of San Francisco and west of Greenwich Village through the 1980s and 1990s. It continued with a reading at an anarchist joint known as the Black Coffee Co-op, where three feminist poets -- one of who is my hip-hop book collaborator Anastacia Tolbert and another of who wrote about her experiences growing up in Indiana  -- read work.

Anastacia and I decided to go to Charlie's on Broadway after the reading to put our heads together and talk hip-hop. We walked from the Black Coffee Co-op on Pine Street up to Broadway and headed north across the grounds of Seattle Central Community College. We hit Denny, where the post office where in 1989 and 1991 American flags were burnt as part of anti-governmental protests, and immediately encountered a crowd.

"I didn't know if you knew about this, Himanee," Anastacia said, "but Macklemore is shooting a video here."

"Wow," I remarked. "I didn't know."

"Nobody knew," she replied. "This is word of mouth, at its basic. He called a radio station, 107.7 this morning and said he was planning to shoot a video and could they do a little promoting. And look at what he got."

        Anastacia knew because she has teenage kids who listen to 107.7. One of them was somewhere in the crowd. She tried texting him and calling him. No response. Neither of us worried. The last person a kid wants to hear from on Broadway is probably his mother.

What Macklemore got was a crowd of flash mob proportion. Three and a half huge city blocks between Denny and Thomas Street, along Broadway, were jammed with people, body to body. Police were practicing crowd control, but there was little, if any, cause for concern. One woman, wearing hijabi, shyly approached me.

"Do you know how I can catch the No. 8 bus," she asked. "I can't go through so many people."

The No. 8 is a crosstown bus that runs up Capitol Hill into the Madison Valley and down Martin Luther King Jr., Way, passing within one block of both my former apartment in the Karma House and my former house in the Central Area. The bus route opened for service in 1995, a few months before I left Seattle for Honolulu. When I returned to Seattle, it became one of my life-support systems, transporting me and often my bicycle to downtown Seattle, Cornish College of the Arts, and to numerous locations south into the Rainier Valley. I knew the route almost as well as the back of my hand.

I walked the woman to Pine Street and told her to walk one block up and then turn left. Two blocks to the north and she would be back to John Street, where the No. 8 would pick her up.

Macklemore isn't the first reason I have seen Broadway shut down. In January 1991, I was just about to leave my apartment to go running when my telephone rang. The Seattle Times city desk was calling to tell me that Broadway was wall-to-wall with people protesting the impending plan to invade Iraq on the eve of the first Persian Gulf War. Could I go down, interview some people, and call in a story?

That peaceful protest covered not only the streets but also the sidewalks. Many shops opened their doors and their windows as a show of solidarity. The protest culminated with the burning of the American flag, near the post office. Police patrolled the area, but were more prone to watch than to release tear gas, as they did six years later when protesters from all over the world gathered downtown to try and shut World Trade Organization talks down.

Anastacia and I ducked around Broadway and managed to get around the Macklemore watchers to Charlie's. The waiter seated us at a table overlooking the street, the same table where I had sat in 2008 with my husband after Barack Obama was elected president. We watched the streets fill that night with people dancing in the streets, savoring a sentiment that progressive Americans had finally gotten their act together to do something right.

Dance steps in brass are plastered into the corners of many intersections on Broadway, instructing passersby on the nuances of the waltz, the swing, and the foxtrot. There's nothing that seems obviously hip-hop on Broadway these days, even though the street seems hip-hop like in spirit.

It is the end of a day. I have much more to say, but I will hold off until tomorrow.