I was thinking the other day: What if God was a her?
Would you love or disrespect her?
Would the same feelings you have to cheat still occur?
If the Lord was a female,
Would you appreciate all that she did for you?
Or would you treat her like she’s something old instead of something new?
If God was the one you chose to be your life long companion,
Would she be your number one or just another stand in?
If God was the girl that you chose to marry,
You said ‘til death do you part
Would you trust her enough that she wouldn’t be running around
with Tom, Dick and Harry?
If God was a female, the one whom you fell in love with,
Given your heart to
Would you still put her first or would she be second on your list?
Each moment with her would be an eternal blessing,
Nothing else to focus on,
Or would you be thinking about another woman undressing?
Because she’s so holy, would you want her the same?
She’d be the epitome of divinity,
Or would you act up and still be running those childish games?
If God was a her, loved you so much for you she would die,
Could you say that you would do the same?
Or her name you would deny?
If God walked beside you, you’d love honor and obey,
Never to go astray, to your heart she would have the key,
You would never lie or disrespect her,
So why does he do it to me?
We are supposed to find the God in one another
So to all guys,
Treat you girls like there is no other.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Males and Females
This is a short piece, and one of the most honest, and quirkiest thing I've written to date. When I was writing it, it made me smile. One thing I learned is to never regreat anything that made you smile =)
I wish that one day to get into your psyche, this time I’m really trying to look past those brand new Nikes. Nothing to set you apart, like all the rest who have the potential to walk all over my heart. It makes me wonder when you look at me what do you see? I’m attractive because of my mind, wouldn’t you agree? Females have a tendency to be emotional and allow guys to gas up their heads, guys will say anything to get you to lay with them in that double size Sealy posturepedic bed. In all my twenty years of interacting with guys, within the past five I noticed that a lot of you are filled with lies. If I’m not your mother, sister, cousin or aunt, you shouldn’t have to lie to me to get what you want.
One bad apple could spoil it for the rest and I’ve had my share of bad apples, so how about I stay away from the orchard, wouldn’t that be best? The other day I heard an R. Kelly track, he said, ‘One man can make one woman hate all men.” All it takes is that one guy to mess it all up maybe that’s why Barbie broke up with Ken. I don’t mean to male bash, but some guys are like something that just won’t go away, kind of like a rash. Let’s just put it this way: to a female, a male is something that she can’t live with or without, and something she always talks about. To a male a female is something that is sometimes treated as a toy, they treat them other wise when they grow up and stop being little boys. But what is all grown up, when do guys start to become oh so corrupt? Is it when they discover Playboy, that secret hidden joy. Or is it when they realize that some girls are size seven with curves and don’t look like their eleven with curls? Could it be when they do the deed, and can’t think about doing nothing but fulfilling that need?
I feel that right now guys play a major role in my life, but tend to cause a lot of pain and strife. I believe that guys have the ability to make me or break me and they know how to make me everything but stress free. I wonder sometimes what makes guys think that they could do what they do to girls and not treat us like diamonds and pearls. But isn’t it funny that we never miss a good thing until its gone, we sit and think about how to get it back from dusk until dawn. I think that both sexes are the exactly the same, and are really good at driving each other insane. ~
I wish that one day to get into your psyche, this time I’m really trying to look past those brand new Nikes. Nothing to set you apart, like all the rest who have the potential to walk all over my heart. It makes me wonder when you look at me what do you see? I’m attractive because of my mind, wouldn’t you agree? Females have a tendency to be emotional and allow guys to gas up their heads, guys will say anything to get you to lay with them in that double size Sealy posturepedic bed. In all my twenty years of interacting with guys, within the past five I noticed that a lot of you are filled with lies. If I’m not your mother, sister, cousin or aunt, you shouldn’t have to lie to me to get what you want.
One bad apple could spoil it for the rest and I’ve had my share of bad apples, so how about I stay away from the orchard, wouldn’t that be best? The other day I heard an R. Kelly track, he said, ‘One man can make one woman hate all men.” All it takes is that one guy to mess it all up maybe that’s why Barbie broke up with Ken. I don’t mean to male bash, but some guys are like something that just won’t go away, kind of like a rash. Let’s just put it this way: to a female, a male is something that she can’t live with or without, and something she always talks about. To a male a female is something that is sometimes treated as a toy, they treat them other wise when they grow up and stop being little boys. But what is all grown up, when do guys start to become oh so corrupt? Is it when they discover Playboy, that secret hidden joy. Or is it when they realize that some girls are size seven with curves and don’t look like their eleven with curls? Could it be when they do the deed, and can’t think about doing nothing but fulfilling that need?
I feel that right now guys play a major role in my life, but tend to cause a lot of pain and strife. I believe that guys have the ability to make me or break me and they know how to make me everything but stress free. I wonder sometimes what makes guys think that they could do what they do to girls and not treat us like diamonds and pearls. But isn’t it funny that we never miss a good thing until its gone, we sit and think about how to get it back from dusk until dawn. I think that both sexes are the exactly the same, and are really good at driving each other insane. ~
Never Put Me Down- Short Story
To show that I am more than a new junkie jounalist, within my blog I've decided to post some short stories that I'm working on. Comment and let me know what you think!~
My name is Tsueday; I know that the spelling appears to be awkward but its pronounced Sah.day. I cannot truly say exactly where it came from because both my parents died before either one of them could explain it meaning to me. They were both killed when I was seventeen years old, right before my eyes. You see, we are from Rwanda and are of the Tutsi nation and the Hutus people felt it their duty to make sure that none of my people no longer graced the Lords earth. I thank God each day that I am alive.
The day began like any other and I would never forget it. As always it was my mother first to rise and me not to long after. My mother was very protective of me she would always refer to me as her ‘miracle’ baby because she always believed that she would never be able to conceive children, so when I came along she was overjoyed. I don’t know why she and my father never made an attempt to have anymore children, but I liked it the way that was- just me, my father and my mother.
The day was April 6th, 1994 and our neighbor from a close by hut, Vivian, came over to tell us that president Juvenal Habyarimana’s plane had been shot down at an airport in Kigali. As usual my mother didn’t really pay close attention to Vivian because she had a tendency to exaggerate situations that need not be.
No one really liked the particular leader because Rwanda’s economy had only seemed to worsen since he came into power, that’s what my father said anyway. As my mother straightened up outside our house, Vivian explained to her what she knew and at the time no one would have imagined the massive amount of turmoil this event would take on our lives. About a half an hour later my father woke up and my mother told hem what Vivian had said to her.
“Patience please, you know that every time that woman comes around she always has to bring you something she heard and you know half the time its no where even close to being near to the truth. Why do you even bother?” asked my father.
“ Well, for some reason I just can’t seem to let this one go. You know last night I had a dream,” said my mother.
“And what was this one about?” asked my father.
“ I was playing with children, a lot of them. But none of them were mine, I don’t where they came from but they just kept on appearing and we were having a wonderful time. But as soon as one of them would open up their mouths to speak and tell me who they were, would be when I would wake up.”
A confused _expression then came upon her face, but soon changed into fear. My father’s forehead grew wrinkles and his eyes became distant, to you this seems irrelevant, but the three of us know that when my mother has a dream it isn’t something that should be ignored.
“ When children are dreamt that means trouble is near,” my father responded.
The two shared an embrace he kissed her on her forehead and my mother gave a reassuring smile.
The day went on just as any other, but right when the sun was about to set, havoc broke free. Two soldiers came and broke down our front door. My father raced into my room with my mother not to far behind him.
“Tsueday! Tsueday! Wake up! Wake up!” was my mother’s cry. I immediately sprung out of bed and rose to my feet.
“Who lives here!” It was a mans voice who I didn’t recognize so a shot of terror ran through my body. I froze. Eyes wide, I felt a scream about to come out, but before I could even make another sound my fathers hands shelter my mouth.
“ Now listen to me Tsueday,” said my father, “you have to be as quiet as you’ve ever been in your entire life, okay.” I shook my head yes. In all my years of knowing my father I have never seen so much fear in his face. Never have I seen so much confusion and terror. His fear made mine rise to surface. We were all as quiet as mice and tried to not make a sound as we made our run for it through my bedroom window. We knew the soldiers were going through some of our personal belongings in the front of our house, taking what they could keep, sell or bring home to their families. Just as my father was making his way through the window, the soldiers came through the door.
“ I knew these bastard Tutsis were in here some where!” yelled one of the soldiers. He called to his friends but only my mother and I were able to make it through the window. I heard a loud CLAP! Once I turned back, I saw my father’s body hanging over my windowsill. Blood pouring out his body, he suddenly became so fragile, like a piece of glass that’d just broken. I heard my mother yelp like a wounded animal. She cried a scream so powerful that I felt it trickle down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and it was as if instantly she had just lost a part of her, like a piece of her soul had just died. I could never understand this love thing, I couldn’t see myself being so selfless towards someone else. I soon ran to join her my mother who was clutching my father’s lifeless body.
The soldiers stood above my weeping mother and I and laughed. “Should we kill them?” one asked the other.
“No, not yet. I think we could use them to our advantage,” was the others response.
“Hey you Tutsi bitch, you and your bastard child come here to us!” yelled the first solider. He was bigger than the other soldier with a significant scar running down the right hand side of his face. The other was small, scrawny and looked somewhat malnourished, probably due to the hard army life that he led.
“Stand before us,” said the solider with the scar on his face. It was as if he was the leader and the other solider was only brought to assist him.
“Undress,” he said to us. My mother knew what was about to come so she begged and pleaded with the men, “Please don’t she is only a child!”
With a force so powerful he hit my mother and she flew back into the wall and collapsed at my side. I fell to comfort her.
“Now both of you stand before me and undress!” My mother looked up at me and gave me her do as you’re told look, so we both began to undress. The men spoke to us as if we were not even in the room.
“Once we kill of the last of these Tutsis, the police have promised me money food and that if I want I could take over this land!” said the heavy set solider with a big smirk resting upon his face.
I felt the cool night breeze rush into throughout the house. It passed through me and I felt an instant chill, like the devil had just passed by. I felt like a stranger in my own home, the two men raped my mother and I and then called their fellow solders to join. My mother and I were gang raped by close to more than a dozen men. I can’t recall an exact time but it was way after sunset when they stopped. The soldier with the scar on his face and his accomplice were discussing something, then within an instant he turned around and shot my mother as I laid my head across her lap. BANG! My eyes shut at the sound of the gun going off and I shuddered at the feeling of my mothers warm drops of blood fell across my face.
“Should we kill her to,” asked the scrawny solider. “ No she will be of some use to us within the near future,” was the other soldier’s response. I lay across my mother for about five minutes before I found the courage to get up and move. I sat up and looked at her face. She looked at peace; a sense of calm was upon her face. I sat there and stared into my mothers face for what seemed to be an eternity. Not a scratch, dot or freckle grazed her face, she was pure beauty. From her round nose to her almond shaped eyes and deep mahogany skin, she was my mother and she was perfect to me in everyway, and in some strange way I found comfort in knowing that she was with my father and that that piece of her soul which she had lost earlier she now found.
I finally snapped out of my daze and realized that I had to do something; I had to find a way to escape get away and save myself. There was another solider who was brought in to keep watch over my mother and I; he had fallen asleep making my plan just that much easier to carry out. I doused myself in my mother’s blood and switched our shirts to add to the effect. I grabbed the soldiers’ gun and shot it through the window. I was a bad aim because I hit off a piece of the wall in the process. Immediately the solider shot up only to see me with the gun in my hand and me ‘lifelessly falling’ to the floor.
I heard the others run in, one saying, “She would have been great the second time around,” and with that they all left the room. As soon as I knew it was safe to leave I made a run for it. I never once looked back, not for anything or anyone.
I spent days I the jungle behind our home. I was to grieve stricken to even walk back. But I was mostly over come with fear above all else which was why I was so reluctant to return back home. I prayed every day that I was in the jungle. I found the courage to walk back home I found no one nothing except for the pungent sent of death it had over taken my entire community. These men spared no one. Not one-man woman or child roamed, all but me. I stood before my house and wept. I cried long and hard thinking to myself why, but my mother always told me to never question the Lord, but I couldn’t help it. My fear soon turned to anger and hate. I mean where was my government when this was happening? Where was everyone?! I think I cried for about an hour before I found the strength move. I didn’t know what to do. I mean here I was alone in a place full of dead people with nowhere to go and no sense of direction.
I decide to gather up as much ruble as possible and pile it in the center of all the houses then I set it all a blaze. I allowed the fire to burn through the night and well into the next day. I kept it burning to warn other soldiers that others have been here and nothing is left to be salvaged. I didn’t know how I was going to survive and I couldn’t exactly say how long it had been that I was alone. My days were spent gathering up the dead and figuring out new ways to ease the ever-growing stench of death that was so abundant. I slept in fear with my bond fire burning and my mind racing. No matter the day I always found something to do. I think as a person I grew. I became stronger and independent I felt a sense of empowerment and strength with everyday. Eventually some men and women came to my aid.
“Are you the only remaining survivor?” a man asked me one morning as he found me cleaning up myself. His nametag read Promise. A beautiful man, nice brown even skin like that of fresh ground cocoa and he had a beautiful bone structure, nothing but happiness shone off his face and his voice brought me comfort. Age hadn’t overcome him yet so he may have been only a few years older than me. We talked on the four hour ride to the refugee camp. He tended to my blistered hands and feet and carried me off to their car.
“Tsueday,” he said.
“Yes,” I responded.
“I promise I will never put you down.” That was eleven years ago and he hasn’t broken his Promise.
My name is Tsueday; I know that the spelling appears to be awkward but its pronounced Sah.day. I cannot truly say exactly where it came from because both my parents died before either one of them could explain it meaning to me. They were both killed when I was seventeen years old, right before my eyes. You see, we are from Rwanda and are of the Tutsi nation and the Hutus people felt it their duty to make sure that none of my people no longer graced the Lords earth. I thank God each day that I am alive.
The day began like any other and I would never forget it. As always it was my mother first to rise and me not to long after. My mother was very protective of me she would always refer to me as her ‘miracle’ baby because she always believed that she would never be able to conceive children, so when I came along she was overjoyed. I don’t know why she and my father never made an attempt to have anymore children, but I liked it the way that was- just me, my father and my mother.
The day was April 6th, 1994 and our neighbor from a close by hut, Vivian, came over to tell us that president Juvenal Habyarimana’s plane had been shot down at an airport in Kigali. As usual my mother didn’t really pay close attention to Vivian because she had a tendency to exaggerate situations that need not be.
No one really liked the particular leader because Rwanda’s economy had only seemed to worsen since he came into power, that’s what my father said anyway. As my mother straightened up outside our house, Vivian explained to her what she knew and at the time no one would have imagined the massive amount of turmoil this event would take on our lives. About a half an hour later my father woke up and my mother told hem what Vivian had said to her.
“Patience please, you know that every time that woman comes around she always has to bring you something she heard and you know half the time its no where even close to being near to the truth. Why do you even bother?” asked my father.
“ Well, for some reason I just can’t seem to let this one go. You know last night I had a dream,” said my mother.
“And what was this one about?” asked my father.
“ I was playing with children, a lot of them. But none of them were mine, I don’t where they came from but they just kept on appearing and we were having a wonderful time. But as soon as one of them would open up their mouths to speak and tell me who they were, would be when I would wake up.”
A confused _expression then came upon her face, but soon changed into fear. My father’s forehead grew wrinkles and his eyes became distant, to you this seems irrelevant, but the three of us know that when my mother has a dream it isn’t something that should be ignored.
“ When children are dreamt that means trouble is near,” my father responded.
The two shared an embrace he kissed her on her forehead and my mother gave a reassuring smile.
The day went on just as any other, but right when the sun was about to set, havoc broke free. Two soldiers came and broke down our front door. My father raced into my room with my mother not to far behind him.
“Tsueday! Tsueday! Wake up! Wake up!” was my mother’s cry. I immediately sprung out of bed and rose to my feet.
“Who lives here!” It was a mans voice who I didn’t recognize so a shot of terror ran through my body. I froze. Eyes wide, I felt a scream about to come out, but before I could even make another sound my fathers hands shelter my mouth.
“ Now listen to me Tsueday,” said my father, “you have to be as quiet as you’ve ever been in your entire life, okay.” I shook my head yes. In all my years of knowing my father I have never seen so much fear in his face. Never have I seen so much confusion and terror. His fear made mine rise to surface. We were all as quiet as mice and tried to not make a sound as we made our run for it through my bedroom window. We knew the soldiers were going through some of our personal belongings in the front of our house, taking what they could keep, sell or bring home to their families. Just as my father was making his way through the window, the soldiers came through the door.
“ I knew these bastard Tutsis were in here some where!” yelled one of the soldiers. He called to his friends but only my mother and I were able to make it through the window. I heard a loud CLAP! Once I turned back, I saw my father’s body hanging over my windowsill. Blood pouring out his body, he suddenly became so fragile, like a piece of glass that’d just broken. I heard my mother yelp like a wounded animal. She cried a scream so powerful that I felt it trickle down my spine. Tears welled up in her eyes and it was as if instantly she had just lost a part of her, like a piece of her soul had just died. I could never understand this love thing, I couldn’t see myself being so selfless towards someone else. I soon ran to join her my mother who was clutching my father’s lifeless body.
The soldiers stood above my weeping mother and I and laughed. “Should we kill them?” one asked the other.
“No, not yet. I think we could use them to our advantage,” was the others response.
“Hey you Tutsi bitch, you and your bastard child come here to us!” yelled the first solider. He was bigger than the other soldier with a significant scar running down the right hand side of his face. The other was small, scrawny and looked somewhat malnourished, probably due to the hard army life that he led.
“Stand before us,” said the solider with the scar on his face. It was as if he was the leader and the other solider was only brought to assist him.
“Undress,” he said to us. My mother knew what was about to come so she begged and pleaded with the men, “Please don’t she is only a child!”
With a force so powerful he hit my mother and she flew back into the wall and collapsed at my side. I fell to comfort her.
“Now both of you stand before me and undress!” My mother looked up at me and gave me her do as you’re told look, so we both began to undress. The men spoke to us as if we were not even in the room.
“Once we kill of the last of these Tutsis, the police have promised me money food and that if I want I could take over this land!” said the heavy set solider with a big smirk resting upon his face.
I felt the cool night breeze rush into throughout the house. It passed through me and I felt an instant chill, like the devil had just passed by. I felt like a stranger in my own home, the two men raped my mother and I and then called their fellow solders to join. My mother and I were gang raped by close to more than a dozen men. I can’t recall an exact time but it was way after sunset when they stopped. The soldier with the scar on his face and his accomplice were discussing something, then within an instant he turned around and shot my mother as I laid my head across her lap. BANG! My eyes shut at the sound of the gun going off and I shuddered at the feeling of my mothers warm drops of blood fell across my face.
“Should we kill her to,” asked the scrawny solider. “ No she will be of some use to us within the near future,” was the other soldier’s response. I lay across my mother for about five minutes before I found the courage to get up and move. I sat up and looked at her face. She looked at peace; a sense of calm was upon her face. I sat there and stared into my mothers face for what seemed to be an eternity. Not a scratch, dot or freckle grazed her face, she was pure beauty. From her round nose to her almond shaped eyes and deep mahogany skin, she was my mother and she was perfect to me in everyway, and in some strange way I found comfort in knowing that she was with my father and that that piece of her soul which she had lost earlier she now found.
I finally snapped out of my daze and realized that I had to do something; I had to find a way to escape get away and save myself. There was another solider who was brought in to keep watch over my mother and I; he had fallen asleep making my plan just that much easier to carry out. I doused myself in my mother’s blood and switched our shirts to add to the effect. I grabbed the soldiers’ gun and shot it through the window. I was a bad aim because I hit off a piece of the wall in the process. Immediately the solider shot up only to see me with the gun in my hand and me ‘lifelessly falling’ to the floor.
I heard the others run in, one saying, “She would have been great the second time around,” and with that they all left the room. As soon as I knew it was safe to leave I made a run for it. I never once looked back, not for anything or anyone.
I spent days I the jungle behind our home. I was to grieve stricken to even walk back. But I was mostly over come with fear above all else which was why I was so reluctant to return back home. I prayed every day that I was in the jungle. I found the courage to walk back home I found no one nothing except for the pungent sent of death it had over taken my entire community. These men spared no one. Not one-man woman or child roamed, all but me. I stood before my house and wept. I cried long and hard thinking to myself why, but my mother always told me to never question the Lord, but I couldn’t help it. My fear soon turned to anger and hate. I mean where was my government when this was happening? Where was everyone?! I think I cried for about an hour before I found the strength move. I didn’t know what to do. I mean here I was alone in a place full of dead people with nowhere to go and no sense of direction.
I decide to gather up as much ruble as possible and pile it in the center of all the houses then I set it all a blaze. I allowed the fire to burn through the night and well into the next day. I kept it burning to warn other soldiers that others have been here and nothing is left to be salvaged. I didn’t know how I was going to survive and I couldn’t exactly say how long it had been that I was alone. My days were spent gathering up the dead and figuring out new ways to ease the ever-growing stench of death that was so abundant. I slept in fear with my bond fire burning and my mind racing. No matter the day I always found something to do. I think as a person I grew. I became stronger and independent I felt a sense of empowerment and strength with everyday. Eventually some men and women came to my aid.
“Are you the only remaining survivor?” a man asked me one morning as he found me cleaning up myself. His nametag read Promise. A beautiful man, nice brown even skin like that of fresh ground cocoa and he had a beautiful bone structure, nothing but happiness shone off his face and his voice brought me comfort. Age hadn’t overcome him yet so he may have been only a few years older than me. We talked on the four hour ride to the refugee camp. He tended to my blistered hands and feet and carried me off to their car.
“Tsueday,” he said.
“Yes,” I responded.
“I promise I will never put you down.” That was eleven years ago and he hasn’t broken his Promise.
Hip Hop Mag, Where Art Thou?
Hello, my name is Hip Hop. I have the ability to reach out and touch millions over sixteen bars. Rhythm and Blues is my sister, my Poppa was a rolling stone and his name was Rock. I like to hang out with my friend call Jazz and her sister named Funk.
I sell shoes, clothes, liquor and cars. I can generate billions of dollars and I am o about thirty years old. I started the careers of Run DMC, KRS-One and Jay-Z; even Kanye West owes me a favor. I was born in New York, and recently moved to Canada.
Back home in the US there are so many magazines dedicated to my work, where fans could get to know about me, and read about those who follow me. In Canada, I can barely find magazines like that, I wonder where they are?
“There was a situation with the Business Development Bank of Canada, where we applied for a loan and the loan officer in charge basically said, ‘We’ve decided not to approve your loan application because some of the articles and advertisements’ are quote, ‘too gangster’,” says Christian Pearce, co-found and editor-in-chief of Pound Magazine.
But, Pearce and Pound publisher and co-founder, Rodrigo Bascuan didn’t allow the small roadblock to derail their plans of a magazine.
“That kinds of shows you the mentality of the people you’re dealing with when you approach the Canadian institutions with something like this and the kinds of obstacles you face with people having their preconceived misconceptions about hip hop,” says Pearce.
Let’s keep looking for these magazines.
Since the banks don't want to facilitate hip hop, its better assume a Do It Yourself mentality.
Enter Scarborough natives Priya Ramanujam and Adrian McKenzie. Together the two friends armed with a little bit of money and a lot of drive, launched their hip hop magazine, Urbanology.
“If you think about it, a lot of urban people, from all different ethnicities, live in Canada. They’re like first or second generation from a different country in the world. In the States, urban people have been living there for a long, long time. [Americans] have had years and years of people trying to make it. So [Canada] is almost at the starting point of that, because we just have two generations of people that are trying: Us and the people that are slightly older than us,” says Ramanujam.
The urban scene has established itself in the U.S, but here in Canada the industry is malnourished and underdeveloped.
“There’s a lot more money and a lot more belief in terms of that industry, [in the US] and there’s a lot more people that represent the urban community, there are people that are in higher positions that know how to market to the urban youth,” says Adrian. “The higher up companies [in Canada] aren’t taking chances.”
I was conceived when Brooklyn DJ Kool Herc began spitting lyrics on breaks back in the 70s. At the time, no one would have ever prophesized, or fathom, my great success.
Hip hop is a culture. Hip hop is a movement.
“In believing in urban culture, companies in Canada are way slower to get on that board. They’re not willing to really see the influence, the power of urban culture. They’re failing to understand the power of the magazine, the power of their marketing messages through it. Unfortunately, we still battle funding, money; all that kind of stuff is still a struggle,” Ramanujam says.
“The urban scene in Canada doesn’t have much money to begin with. A magazine like double XXL or the Source has a lot of corporate infrastructure as far as financial backing and advertising,” says founder of hiphopcanda.com, Jesse Plunkett. “Its much harder to secure advertising in general.”
During my stay in Canada I met artist such as Maestro Fresh Wes, Ghetto Concept, Michie Mee and Kardinal Official. Despite all the talent, Canadian hip hop artists are having a tough time getting their names in print.
J Robb, a Toronto rapper in the industry for a little over ten years, believes that as an artist, having magazines as an outlet to reach fans is indispensable.
“When it comes to the outlets, you have the media outlets like TV, radio and magazines; most of us don’t get TV and some of us don’t get radio and there’s a lot of print that comes out of the city. So [magazines are] real important, when it comes down to it. People are buying the magazines like the XXL and the Source, but they’re not seeing any Canadian music in it, so they won’t take it seriously,” Robb says.
I also met my home girl Samantha Wong, a Canadian hip hop writer, who writes for publications on both sides of the border, suggests there may be another reason for the lack of hip hop magazines.
“Look at the market and consumer; we don’t have enough consumers to go out and buy those magazines. It’s not smart that we don’t have enough, its just that we don’t have enough material to make it quality. The thing is [in the US] they have enough material to write on, we don’t have as many events as they do, we don’t have listening parties launches, we don’t have those kinds of things to constantly write about,” declares Wong.
I'm Hip Hop and that's my quest to find urban magazines in Canada.
I sell shoes, clothes, liquor and cars. I can generate billions of dollars and I am o about thirty years old. I started the careers of Run DMC, KRS-One and Jay-Z; even Kanye West owes me a favor. I was born in New York, and recently moved to Canada.
Back home in the US there are so many magazines dedicated to my work, where fans could get to know about me, and read about those who follow me. In Canada, I can barely find magazines like that, I wonder where they are?
“There was a situation with the Business Development Bank of Canada, where we applied for a loan and the loan officer in charge basically said, ‘We’ve decided not to approve your loan application because some of the articles and advertisements’ are quote, ‘too gangster’,” says Christian Pearce, co-found and editor-in-chief of Pound Magazine.
But, Pearce and Pound publisher and co-founder, Rodrigo Bascuan didn’t allow the small roadblock to derail their plans of a magazine.
“That kinds of shows you the mentality of the people you’re dealing with when you approach the Canadian institutions with something like this and the kinds of obstacles you face with people having their preconceived misconceptions about hip hop,” says Pearce.
Let’s keep looking for these magazines.
Since the banks don't want to facilitate hip hop, its better assume a Do It Yourself mentality.
Enter Scarborough natives Priya Ramanujam and Adrian McKenzie. Together the two friends armed with a little bit of money and a lot of drive, launched their hip hop magazine, Urbanology.
“If you think about it, a lot of urban people, from all different ethnicities, live in Canada. They’re like first or second generation from a different country in the world. In the States, urban people have been living there for a long, long time. [Americans] have had years and years of people trying to make it. So [Canada] is almost at the starting point of that, because we just have two generations of people that are trying: Us and the people that are slightly older than us,” says Ramanujam.
The urban scene has established itself in the U.S, but here in Canada the industry is malnourished and underdeveloped.
“There’s a lot more money and a lot more belief in terms of that industry, [in the US] and there’s a lot more people that represent the urban community, there are people that are in higher positions that know how to market to the urban youth,” says Adrian. “The higher up companies [in Canada] aren’t taking chances.”
I was conceived when Brooklyn DJ Kool Herc began spitting lyrics on breaks back in the 70s. At the time, no one would have ever prophesized, or fathom, my great success.
Hip hop is a culture. Hip hop is a movement.
“In believing in urban culture, companies in Canada are way slower to get on that board. They’re not willing to really see the influence, the power of urban culture. They’re failing to understand the power of the magazine, the power of their marketing messages through it. Unfortunately, we still battle funding, money; all that kind of stuff is still a struggle,” Ramanujam says.
“The urban scene in Canada doesn’t have much money to begin with. A magazine like double XXL or the Source has a lot of corporate infrastructure as far as financial backing and advertising,” says founder of hiphopcanda.com, Jesse Plunkett. “Its much harder to secure advertising in general.”
During my stay in Canada I met artist such as Maestro Fresh Wes, Ghetto Concept, Michie Mee and Kardinal Official. Despite all the talent, Canadian hip hop artists are having a tough time getting their names in print.
J Robb, a Toronto rapper in the industry for a little over ten years, believes that as an artist, having magazines as an outlet to reach fans is indispensable.
“When it comes to the outlets, you have the media outlets like TV, radio and magazines; most of us don’t get TV and some of us don’t get radio and there’s a lot of print that comes out of the city. So [magazines are] real important, when it comes down to it. People are buying the magazines like the XXL and the Source, but they’re not seeing any Canadian music in it, so they won’t take it seriously,” Robb says.
I also met my home girl Samantha Wong, a Canadian hip hop writer, who writes for publications on both sides of the border, suggests there may be another reason for the lack of hip hop magazines.
“Look at the market and consumer; we don’t have enough consumers to go out and buy those magazines. It’s not smart that we don’t have enough, its just that we don’t have enough material to make it quality. The thing is [in the US] they have enough material to write on, we don’t have as many events as they do, we don’t have listening parties launches, we don’t have those kinds of things to constantly write about,” declares Wong.
I'm Hip Hop and that's my quest to find urban magazines in Canada.
Hip Hop Is Dead
About few years ago, Brooklyn native Nasir Jones a.k.a Nas, stirred up controversy when he proclaimed that hip hop was dead. It has been just about a year and those words became the seed of a new movement.
There are those who will testify that the industry has not lost its swagger, but I beg to differ.
It seems that the demise of hip hop started in the South with the crunk movement. The movement had such an impact, Webster’s recently recognized ‘crunk’ as a word.
Not everything bad has come out of the South. Hip hop pioneers Outkast and successors like
Ludacris, Nelly and T.I all came from the “dirty South”.
The problem, I believe began with a rapper known as Young Joc and a track called ‘Its Goin’ Down’. With basic lyrics like, “I know ya wonder why/I'm so cool/ Don't ask me just do what cha do.” The song is more like a limerick than a record.
One year later enter Hurricane Chris with his single, “A Bay Bay”. With even more simplistic rhymes than his predecessor Young Joc, Hurricaine Chris’s lyric’s are pouring salt on hip hop’s open wound.
“When I’m walkin' and I’m pimpin' /when I’m talkin'/I don't trick on chick dat’s talkin’”. Chris continued to do harm to the industry when he released the follow up, “The Hand Clap”.
Now Joc and Chris didn’t bring hip hop to its downfall single handily. How could we forget Lil Boosie’s sorry excuse for a song, “Wipe Me Down”. Where the chorus consist of two lines repeated ten times. If you think you need to be wiped down, Boosie take a shower!
But I would like to send an honorable mention to Souljah Boy. His dumb, song doesn’t even deserve a paragraph.
But oh no, less we forget those who added to the problem, like Mike Jones and the now divided Cash Money Millionaires.
There are artists out there who never fail me and constantly drop hit after hit stacked with one, two, mamma said knock you out punch lines. Artists like Jay Hova, Kanye and Common. Tupac and the Notorious B.I.G must be rolling in their graves right now at the current state of hip hop.
Tupac was a lyrical poet. In “Keep Ya Head Up”, an ode to society, Tupac spoke the truth about societies problems. “You know it's funny when it rains it pours/They got money for wars, but can't feed the poor.” Consider the fact that this song was written more than ten years ago yet still stands true today?
Now the Notorious B.I.G, granted he was not as philosophical as Tupac, none the less, he went down as the true G.O.A.T, sorry LL. He helped spawn the careers of never-writes-his-own-lyrics P.Diddy and jail bird Lil’ Kim.
What ever happened to strong lyrical content? Whatever happened to Nas? It’s as if he dropped this controversy bomb and just left. That’s like passing wind in a room, and leaving! Lets hope Nas' N*ger alsum will help to revive what he feels is dead.
Thanks to Lil’ Wayne’s revamped style of rapping, Kanye’s and ever swelling head and creativity, Common and his truth, these MC’s are holding down the fort, trying to set a good example for younger lyrists to come.
In the November 2007 issue of XXL magazine, they come up with a list of ten artist who they think will dig hip hop out its hole. Artist like Lupe Fiasco, Papose and Rich Boy. But can they be the doctor’s to save an already dying victim: Hip Hop? Some can, but keep in mind Lil Boosie made that list.
This is just an opinion, to those who are offended by these words, I say: “A wise man told me don’t argue with fools, cause people from a distance can’t tell who is who”.
There are those who will testify that the industry has not lost its swagger, but I beg to differ.
It seems that the demise of hip hop started in the South with the crunk movement. The movement had such an impact, Webster’s recently recognized ‘crunk’ as a word.
Not everything bad has come out of the South. Hip hop pioneers Outkast and successors like
Ludacris, Nelly and T.I all came from the “dirty South”.
The problem, I believe began with a rapper known as Young Joc and a track called ‘Its Goin’ Down’. With basic lyrics like, “I know ya wonder why/I'm so cool/ Don't ask me just do what cha do.” The song is more like a limerick than a record.
One year later enter Hurricane Chris with his single, “A Bay Bay”. With even more simplistic rhymes than his predecessor Young Joc, Hurricaine Chris’s lyric’s are pouring salt on hip hop’s open wound.
“When I’m walkin' and I’m pimpin' /when I’m talkin'/I don't trick on chick dat’s talkin’”. Chris continued to do harm to the industry when he released the follow up, “The Hand Clap”.
Now Joc and Chris didn’t bring hip hop to its downfall single handily. How could we forget Lil Boosie’s sorry excuse for a song, “Wipe Me Down”. Where the chorus consist of two lines repeated ten times. If you think you need to be wiped down, Boosie take a shower!
But I would like to send an honorable mention to Souljah Boy. His dumb, song doesn’t even deserve a paragraph.
But oh no, less we forget those who added to the problem, like Mike Jones and the now divided Cash Money Millionaires.
There are artists out there who never fail me and constantly drop hit after hit stacked with one, two, mamma said knock you out punch lines. Artists like Jay Hova, Kanye and Common. Tupac and the Notorious B.I.G must be rolling in their graves right now at the current state of hip hop.
Tupac was a lyrical poet. In “Keep Ya Head Up”, an ode to society, Tupac spoke the truth about societies problems. “You know it's funny when it rains it pours/They got money for wars, but can't feed the poor.” Consider the fact that this song was written more than ten years ago yet still stands true today?
Now the Notorious B.I.G, granted he was not as philosophical as Tupac, none the less, he went down as the true G.O.A.T, sorry LL. He helped spawn the careers of never-writes-his-own-lyrics P.Diddy and jail bird Lil’ Kim.
What ever happened to strong lyrical content? Whatever happened to Nas? It’s as if he dropped this controversy bomb and just left. That’s like passing wind in a room, and leaving! Lets hope Nas' N*ger alsum will help to revive what he feels is dead.
Thanks to Lil’ Wayne’s revamped style of rapping, Kanye’s and ever swelling head and creativity, Common and his truth, these MC’s are holding down the fort, trying to set a good example for younger lyrists to come.
In the November 2007 issue of XXL magazine, they come up with a list of ten artist who they think will dig hip hop out its hole. Artist like Lupe Fiasco, Papose and Rich Boy. But can they be the doctor’s to save an already dying victim: Hip Hop? Some can, but keep in mind Lil Boosie made that list.
This is just an opinion, to those who are offended by these words, I say: “A wise man told me don’t argue with fools, cause people from a distance can’t tell who is who”.
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