#ws340

Surrounded by massive music industry buzz since the release of her first track "Seventeen" almost four years ago, Azealia Banks is either love or hate. The 21-year-old Harlem rapper is loud, lewd, and brash, with quick wit and even faster rhymes. Unfortunately, she is young and very obviously still trying to figure out how to disconnect her personal life from her public persona -- something that has gotten her in trouble recently. Nonetheless, she is getting people talking. 

Personally, I am fascinated with her. While she may do some things that are inappropriate or unnecessarily aggressive  I continue to excuse her because "she is young" and "still trying to figure it out" and people have said that about me in the past and I can relate to it. 

The release of the "212" video spurred a lot of reactions from the feminist community. While many felt uncomfortable with her reclamation and appropriation of "cunt" and "bitch", even more people felt uncomfortable with the ease she dropped the n-bomb, using it much like a preposition. 

Like many before her, black female rappers are constantly misidentified and misunderstood in the larger content of hip-hop. Tricia Rose in her article titled "Bad Sistas: Black Women Rappers and Sexual Politics in Rap Music" writes about the duties that black female rappers have to "interpret and articulate the fears, pleasures, and the promises of young black women whose voices have been relegated to the margins of public discourse." While she does not call herself a feminist, Banks' ability to use her voice to garner attention to what she is saying (read: it's only brash because the truth hurts) is a telling sign that the role of women in hip-hop is changing drastically. In a recent interview with GQ UK, she said:

Do you think of yourself as a feminist?

No, I'm not a feminist, but at the same time I've kind of gotten over that inferiority towards men that I've grown up with. Not having a dad growing up you feel a little inferior and a little vulnerable. I realized the power of being a woman. We don't really have physical man power. I'm sure there are some girls who are totally into sports, but that's how men compete with each other: they play sports, they have the best car and they have the prettiest girl. With men their power is very much external. Women compete on a completely different level. There's definitely a lot more psychological warfare that goes on between women. Women meet each other and they will say, "Hey!" [looks GQ.com up and down]Automatically sizing each other up, whereas men are more like [bored drawl], "Hey, you like nachos? Want to get some nachos?" Women are way more conniving - I don't want to say evil - but way more internal and we keep a lot more stuff secret. It's not a feminism thing, it's just me realizing where I am, what I can get and what I can do to get it.

By announcing that she is not a feminist, she goes against the dichotomy in hip-hop that says males rappers are constructed as sexist, while female rappers are naturally meant to be seen as empowering to women and feminist. People criticize Banks because of her ability to masterfully hone the power that she feels from being a woman. White cis men do not want to hear a barely-legal woman of color talking about dominating them physically, sexually, and financially. Her ability to simultaneously hit 'em where it hurts and empower herself (she openly talks about pleasuring herself and getting pleasured -- see songs "212", "Liquorice") are unlike that of most rap artists (save for recent ones like Missy Elliott, Lil Kim, but they don't even do it much like she does.) In Rose's piece, she writes about three characteristics that are predominant in the works of blame female rappers and those are:

1. Heterosexual courtship

2. The importance of the female voice

3. Mastery in women's rap and black female public displays of physical and sexual freedom 

Azealia Banks somehow manages to turn all of these aspects around. Banks, who is openly bisexual, raps equally about loving women and loving men. In a recent interview with New York Times, she said “I’m not trying to be, like, the bisexual, lesbian rapper. I don’t live on other people’s terms.” Nonetheless, she is opened a rarely-talked about topic of homosexuality in the black community. As she becomes more known, I'm curious to see how she will be able to influence the rest of the hip-hop community.

In regards to her voice, making her lips and teeth one of the main scenes of "212" effectively depicts  in effect smacks the importance of the female voice right into the face of all those who talk poorly about female rappers. Her flow is masterful, cheeky, and smart. 

As previously discussed, Banks is an openly sexual person. She is partially clad in many of her videos, but I don't think she does that merely to be perceived as "sexy." Her confidence in her ability to still be listened to while half-dressed is intimidating in the best way, and I think her ability to do so terrifies many. 

But I absolutely will NOT tolerate (and will attempt to hold any semblance of composure to not punch you square in the jaw) being called any of the following: girl, honey, sweetheart, sweetie, baby. Perhaps my reaction is unusual, but in the scope of gender normative vocabulary, I think it is right on point. 

In a recent article in Forbes titled "'Girls?' 'Ladies?' 'Folks?' A Visual Guide to What You Should Call that Group of Individuals" author Kashmir Hill discusses how girls has become an acceptable term for women far past the age of elementary school children. TV shows Girls, Bad Girls Club, even the movie the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo identify women in a diminutive way that presents an unclear representation of their age and character. 

By normalizing "girls" to mean any women of any age further marginalizes women by making it difficult to assert themselves around more male-dominated figures, who are strictly referred to as "men." 

A very telling quote about the rampancy of this problem discusses the problem with the integration of girl/boy vocabulary in popular culture. 

It’s hard to imagine Robert Downey Jr. signing up to play “Iron Boy.”

I love RDJ so I'd probably watch it regardless of what the movie was called, but Hill alludes to the problem that men feel uncomfortable having to decide what to call another, equally powerful, same-aged woman so they auto-pilot to girls. Additionally, calling someone by a noun referencing their gender assumes the gender binary and does not allow for fluidity of preference. 

Hill includes a very helpful chart, one that both men AND women should make sure to memorize. 

In a discussion on dolls and games in a class I’m taking regarding gender, race, and class in media, we were prompted to create a story from Barbie’s perspective. While others openly read their stories out loud, I struggled to express exactly what I had wanted Barbie to say — or rather what Barbie was saying to me. 

It was difficult to discuss Barbie so casually after all the effects on me as a child. Growing up in West Hollywood after recently immigrating from Estonia, my family didn’t have much. Living five people to one two-bedroom apartment, our sources of entertainment save for each other were scant. Granted, I was a toddler — and here I openly pull the only-child card — and had pleaded, whined, cried, whimpered, and begged my way to the 10 Barbies that I cherished dearly. I didn’t have much, but having Barbie as my companion was enough. 

I didn’t realize it until much later that I always felt sociable and oriented later in life because of all the time I spent with my Barbies. I told myself then that if they could do anything, so could I. Even if I couldn’t have a Malibu mansion or a memberless Adonis-like boyfriend/life partner, I could temporarily pretend that that was the case. Looking back, I attribute many of my current qualities to the Barbies I used to own. I was never afraid to lob all the hair off of my Barbies much like I am today, and I knew that I had a plan to maintain a career and I’ve since stuck with it. 

Mostly importantly, Barbie taught me confidence…but in a bizarre, Yoda/reverse psychological way. The statuesque, dare I say — Aryan — beauty looked nothing like the jet black haired, baby-birthing hipped child that I was, but it was Barbie that taught me to be confident in my looks even if I didn’t look like anybody else. She allowed my typically introverted self to openly express what I felt needed saying and doing.