by Elise Lockamy
“Canaan, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Without hesitation, he stood up gleefully and shouted, “I am going to be President of the United States!”
In this post-acquittal era of the George Zimmerman trial and the wrongful death of our martyred son Trayvon Martin, I’d be just as delighted if my elementary school-aged cousin had said, “Alive. I want to be alive.”
Here’s what I can’t swallow, or seem to be able to have non-Black peers acknowledge, and that’s that if Trayvon was White, he would be alive today. Zimmerman found him suspicious because he was a young Black male walking around the neighborhood, fitting the same profile of a former neighborhood burglar. That other guy – Black. Trayvon – Black. Trayvon – dead. Killer – free. I weep.
Trayvon’s unidentified body lay in a morgue for hours. He was just another one of “them”. Another Black male profiled and deemed unworthy of life. I weep.
Trayvon Benjamin Martin was shot and killed on February 26, 2012.
I maintain that he died on February 5, 1995, the day of his birth, the day he was born a Black Boy in America.
I sat in the congregation, afro in full force, as the Black missionary from Cameroon relayed all the wonderful things the church was up to. There were healings and trips to heaven. Ministry students were powerfully walking in their spiritual gifts. The school was becoming the equipping ground for nation-changers. The missionary acknowledged the congregants who monetarily supported the ministry and thanked the rest of us for our spiritual support. She told anecdotes of her cultural re-adaptations to the United States. She went on to mention that she was appalled by the music and television shows she saw on VH1. And then my sister, this sister with beautiful dreadlocked hair who had captured the ears of the mostly White congregation said, “Hip-Hop is killing this generation.” I cringed as most in the audience nodded and clapped in agreement. I still cringe.
Art, in its unmodified form, is an outward expression of the meditations of the inner-man. Worshippers know that when Kim Walker-Smith or Richard Smallwood begin to use their instruments (vocal and otherwise) to exact adoration to the Father that it’s coming from a rich soul, and anointed with the Father’s presence that’s able to transcend time, space, and mode of hearing. See it’s coming from the spirit. When I listen to Hip-Hop, sometimes filled with meditations of bigotry, sexism, self-hatred, pain of the fatherless, and a dearth of hope, I know it’s coming from a broken spirit, a lost inner-man.
Hip-Hop is not killing this generation. A lack of identity, value, and self-worth, rooted in the Father, is killing this generation. We #Coolikans like to say that somebody lied to us. Well somebody not only lied to our brothers, he or she stopped speaking to them altogether.
Ponder this – if people only paid attention to you when you achieved on the basketball court or the football field (and pushed your body to its physical limits in the process), wouldn’t you too only see value in another’s body? I am not surprised that many songs feature the sexualized female form.
Ponder this – if the only opportunity you had to engage society’s influencers occurred when you had as much money as they did, wouldn’t you too want to equate your worth with your earnings and flaunt what you have? I am not surprised at the stronghold of materialism that is heard throughout popular music today.
Ponder this – if your father never came home and you never saw an engagement of fraternal love (between him and his intimate circle), wouldn’t it also be easy for you to slander a brother in a song? I see how easy it is for some songs to drudge up imagery of murdering another person.
I have to ask – what have we (women, fathers, the education system, the jails, the ghettos, society-at-large, and dare I say the church) been telling our Black boys about themselves that drives them to the continued oppression of themselves and those around them?
Hip-Hop is not killing this generation.
A couple days after the verdict was announced, a radio personality challenged listeners to call in and share what they will now tell their sons as a result of the tragic death of a beloved son and the acquittal of his killer.
A fierce mother called in. She was angry. She was hurting. She told that she will now tell her son that he is a member of an endangered species with a target on his back, viewed as a threat by all who manage or bother to see him.
I want to tell our fathers, sons, uncles, brothers, and cousins something else.
You don’t wear a target. You wear a crown. The Father says that you are kings. Don’t look in the mirror and see a reflection of a workhorse, a mere athlete or entertainer, or a slave. See a reflection of a Son of God, worthy of the calling of leader and lover. For generations, your power, gifts, and talents have been feared. I do not fear you. I celebrate you. Deaden your ears to the evil whispers of those who envy you and want to see your demise. Awaken to the promise of abundant living and the esteem of a Father who sees incredible value in you. Charge into Fatherhood and take back your families. Charge into the boardroom and rip the price tag off your back. Take it all back and stand firm. He, the glorious Father, is with you.
The songs of life (not fear and death) that will be sung, once the truth about His sons is revealed and celebrated, will shake the Heavens and draw us so close to the presence of God that we’ll be able to smell his fragrance. That’s where Trayvon is, in His presence. That’s where we all belong.