I WILL FOREVER REMAIN FAITHFUL BY DAVID RAMSEY: How Lil Wayne...
December 9, 2008 at 8:13am
1.
Complex magazine: What do you listen to these days?
Lil Wayne: Me! All day, all me.
2. Like a white person, with blue veins
In
my first few weeks teaching in New Orleans’ Recovery School District,
these were the questions I heard the most from my students:
1) “I gotta use it.” (This one might sound like a statement, but it’s a request—May I use the bathroom?)
2) “You got an ol’ lady?” (the penultimate vowel stretched, lasciviously, as far as it’ll go).
3) “Where you from?”
4) “You listen to that Weezy?”
I
knew that third question was coming. Like many RSD teachers, I was new,
and white, and from out of town.It was the fourth question, however,
that seemed to interest my students the most. Dwayne Carter, aka Lil
Wayne, aka Weezy F. Baby, was in the midst of becoming the year’s
biggest rapper, and among the black teenagers that made up my student
population, fandom had reached a near-Beatlemania pitch. More than
ninety percent of my students cited Lil Wayne on the “Favorite Music”
question on the survey I gave them; about half of them repeated the
answer on “Favorite Things to Do.”
For some of my students, the questions
Where are you from? and
Do you listen to Lil Wayne? were
close to interchangeable. Their shared currency—as much as
neighborhoods or food or slang or trauma—was the stoned musings of Weezy
F. Baby.
The answer was, sometimes, yes, I did listen to Lil Wayne. Despite his ubiquitous success, my students were shocked.
“Do you have the mix tapes?” asked Michael, a sixteen-year-old ninth grader. “It’s all about the mix tapes.”
The following day, he had a stack of CDs for me. Version this, volume that, or no label at all.
And that’s just about all I listened to for the rest of the year.
3. My picture should be in the dictionary next to the definition of definition
Lil
Wayne slurs, hollers, sings, sighs, bellows, whines, croons, wheezes,
coughs, stutters, shouts. He reminds me, in different moments, of two
dozen other rappers. In a genre that often demands keeping it real via
being repetitive, Lil Wayne is a chameleon, rapping in different
octaves, paces, and inflections. Sometimes he sounds like a bluesman,
sometimes he sounds like a Muppet baby.
Lil Wayne does his
share of gangsta posturing, but half the time he starts chuckling before
he gets through a line. He’s a ham. He is heavy on pretense, and thank
God. Like Dylan, theatricality trumps authenticity.
And
yet—even as he tries on a new style for every other song, it is always
unmistakably him. I think of Elvis’s famous boast, “I don’t sound like
nobody.” I imagine Wayne would flip it: “Don’t
nobody sound like me.”
4.
Every
few weeks, Michael or another student—for this piece, the names of my
students have been changed—would have a new burned CD that was
supposedly
Tha Carter III, Lil Wayne’s long-anticipated sixth
studio album. “This one’s official,” they would say. I learned to be
skeptical even as I enjoyed the new tracks. Nothing “official” would
come around until school was out for summer, but Lil Wayne created
hundreds of new songs in 2007 and the first half of 2008.
Vibe
magazine took the time to rank his best seventy-seven songs of 2007, and
that was not a comprehensive list. These songs would end up on the
Internet, which downloaders could snag for free. He also appeared for
guest verses on dozens of other rappers’ tracks. He thusly managed to
rate as the “Hottest MC in the Game” (according to MTV) and the “Best
MC” (according to
Rolling Stone), despite offering nothing new at the record store.
While
Wayne claimed to do every song “at the same ability or hype,” the
quality varied widely. He wrote nothing down (he was simply too stoned,
he explained), rapping off the top of his head every time the spirit
moved him, which was pretty much all the time. The results were
sometimes tremendous and sometimes awkward, but that was half the fun.
His oeuvre ended up being a sort of unedited reality show of his wily
subconscious.
5. Ain’t ’bout to pick today to start running
During
the first few days of school, Darius, one of my homeroom students, kept
getting in trouble for leaving classes without permission. At the end
of the second day, he pulled me aside to tell me why he kept having to
use the bathroom: he had been shot in the leg three times and had a
colostomy bag.
When I visited him in the hospital a few weeks
later—he was there for follow-up surgery—he told me about the dealers
who shot him. Darius’s speaking voice is a dead ringer for Lil Wayne’s
old-man rasp. “I told them, Do what you need to do, you heard me? I
ain’t scared, you heard me?”
Then he leaned over and pointed, laughing, to Sponge Bob on the television.
6.
Lil
Wayne, rumor has it, briefly went to the pre-Katrina version of our
school. Same name and location, but back then it was a neighborhood high
school. The building was wrecked in the storm. Our school, a charter
school, is housed in modulars (my students hate this euphemism—they’re
trailers) in the lot in back. Sometimes I went and peeked in the windows
of the old building, and it looked to me like no one had cleaned or
gutted it since the storm. It was like a museum set piece. There was
still a poster up announcing an open house, coming September 2005.
7.
I
taught fifth-grade social studies, eighth-grade writing, ninth-grade
social studies. Sometimes I felt inspired, sometimes deflated.
One
time, a black student vehemently defended his one Arab classmate during
a discussion about the Jena 6: “If you call him a terrorist, that’s
like what a cop thinks about us.” Another day, when I was introducing
new material about Africa, a student interrupted me—“I heard them niggas
have AIDS!”
8. Pain, since I’ve lost you—I’m lost too
Our
students are afraid of rain. A heavy morning shower can cut attendance
in half. I once had a student write an essay about her experience in the
Superdome. She wrote, without explanation, that she lost her memory
when she lost her grandmother in the storm. I was supposed to correct
the grammar, so that she would be prepared for state testing in the
spring.
9. Keep your mouth closed and let your eyes listen
Lil
Wayne is five-foot-six and wiry, sleepy-eyed, covered in tattoos,
including teardrops under his eyes. His two camera poses are a cool tilt
of the head and a sneer. He means to look sinister, I think, but there
is something actually huggable about him. He looks like he could be one
of my students—and some of my students like to think they look like him.
The
other day, I saw Cornel West on television say that Lil Wayne’s
physical body bears witness to tragedy. I don’t even know what that
means, but I do think that Wayne’s artistic persona is a testament to
damage.
10.
One
of my favorite Lil Wayne hooks is the chorus on a Playaz Circle song
called “Duffle Bag Boy.” In the past year, he started singing more, and
this was his best turn. He sounds a little like the neighborhood drunk
at first as he warbles his way up and down the tune, but his singing
voice has an organically exultant quality that seems to carry him to
emotional delirium. After a while, he’s belting out instructions to a
drug courier with the breathy urgency of a Baptist hymn. By the end of
the song, the standard-order macho boast, “I ain’t never ran from a
nigga and I damn sure ain’t ’bout to pick today to start running,” has
been turned by Lil Wayne into a plea, a soul lament.
11.
On
New Orleans radio, it seems like nearly every song features Lil Wayne.
My kids sang his songs in class, in the hallways, before school, after
school. I had a student who would rap a Lil Wayne line if he didn’t know
the answer to a question.
An eighth grader wrote his
Persuasive Essay on the topic “Lil Wayne is the best rapper alive.” Main
ideas for three body paragraphs:
Wayne has the most tracks and most hits, best metaphors and similes, competition is fake.
12. My flow is art, unique—my flow can part a sea
Once
I witnessed a group of students huddled around a speaker listening to
Lil Wayne. They had heard these songs before, but were nonetheless
gushing and guffawing over nearly every line. One of them, bored and
quiet in my classroom, was enthusiastically, if vaguely, parsing each
lyric for his classmates: “You hear that?
Cleaner than a virgin in detergent. Think on that.”
Pulling
out the go-to insult of high schoolers everywhere, a girl nearby
questioned their sexuality. “Y’all be in to Lil Wayne so much you sound
like girls,” she said.
They just kept listening. Then one of
the boys was simply overtaken by a lyrical turn. He stood up, threw up
his hands, and began hollering. “I don’t care!” he shouted. “No homo, no
homo, but that boy is cute!”
13.
Lil Wayne on making it: “When you’re really rich, then asparagus is yummy.”
Lil Wayne on safe sex: “Better wear a latex, cause you don’t want that late text, that ‘I think I’m late’ text.”
Lil Wayne on possibly less safe sex: “How come there is two women, but ain’t no two Waynes?”
14.
Okay, but it’s not any one line, it’s that
voice.
Just the way he says “car in park” in his cameo on Mario’s “Crying Out
for Me” remix; it’s a soft growl from another planet. It sounds like a
threat and a comfort and a come-on all at once.
15. I am just a Martian, ain’t nobody else on this planet
Right
before you become a teacher, you are told by all manner of folks that
it will be 1) the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and 2) the best thing
you’ve ever done. That seems like a recipe for recruiting wannabe
martyrs. In any case, high stakes can blind you to the best moments. One
day, I was stressing over what I imagined was my one-man quest to keep
Darius in school and out of jail, and missed that a heated dispute
between two fifth graders was escalating. Finally, I asked them what was
wrong.
“Mr. Ramsey,” one of the boys pleaded, “will you
please
tell him that if you go into space for a year and come back to Earth
that all your family will be dead because time moves slower in space?”
16. And to the kids: drugs kill. I’m acknowledging that. But when I’m on the drugs, I don’t have a problem with that.
On
one of his best songs, the super-catchy “I Feel Like Dying,” Lil Wayne
barely exists. He always sounds high, but on this song he sounds as
though he has already passed out.
A lot of the alarmism about
pop music sending the wrong message to impressionable youth seems mostly
overwrought to me, but I’ll cop to feeling taken aback at ten-year-olds
singing, “Only once the drugs are done, do I feel like dying, I feel
like dying.”
First time I heard a fifth grader singing this in falsetto, I said: “
What did you say?”
He said: “Mr. Ramsey, you know you be listening to that song. Why you tripping?”
My students always ask me why I’m tripping at precisely the moments when the answer seems incredibly obvious to me.
17.
After
Michael cussed out our vice principal, I did a home visit. Michael was
one of the biggest drug dealers in his neighborhood, and also one of my
best students.
His mother was roused from bed. She looked
half-gone, dazed. Then she started crying, and hugged me, pulled my head
into her body. “No one’s ever cared like this,” she said. “Bless you.
Thank you.”
Michael smiled shyly. “I just want to get in my right grade,” he told me.
“We’ll find a way to make that happen,” I told him.
A few weeks later, I gave him a copy of a
New Yorker piece on Lil Wayne.
“Actually, that was good,” he said, later. “You teach me to write like that?”
18. Born in New Orleans, raised in New Orleans…
You
live here as a newcomer and locals are fond of saying “this is New
Orleans” or “welcome to New Orleans” by way of explanation. They use it
to explain absurdity, inefficiency, arbitrary disaster, and transcendent
fun. Enormous holes in the middle of major streets, say, or a drunken
man dressed as an insect in line behind you at the convenience store.
Our
challenge in the schools is to try to reform a broken system (the
“recovery” in Recovery School District doesn’t refer to the storm—the
district was created before Katrina, when the state took over the city’s
failing schools) amidst a beautiful culture that is sometimes committed
to cutting folks a little slack.
I have heard the following
things speciously defended or excused by New Orleans culture: truancy,
low test scores, drug and alcohol addiction, extended families showing
up within the hour to settle minor school-boy scuffles, inept
bureaucracy, lazy teachers, students showing up hungover the day after
Mother’s Day….
19.
Once,
a girl’s older sister looked askance at one of my best students after
school, and about five minutes later there was a full-on brawl in the
parking lot. I lost my grip on the student I was holding back and she
jumped on top of another student’s mother and started pounding.
On
the pavement in front of me was a weave and a little bit of blood. One
of my ninth graders was watching the chaos gleefully while I tried to
figure out how to make myself useful. He was as happy as I’ve ever seen
him. He shrugged beatifically. “This is
New Orleans!” he shouted, to me, to himself, to anyone who might be listening.
20.
Sometimes
my students tell me they are sick of talking about the storm. Sometimes
it’s all they want to talk about. Might be the same student. Some
students have told me it ruined their lives, some students have told me
it saved their lives. Again, sometimes the same student will say both.
21.
From an interview in early 2006:
AllHipHop.com: On the album, did you ever contemplate doing a whole track dedicated to the Hurricane Katrina tragedy?
Lil
Wayne: No, because I’m from New Orleans, brother. Our main focus is to
move ahead and move on. You guys are not from New Orleans and keep
throwing it in our face, like, ‘Well, how do you feel about Hurricane
Katrina?’ I f—king feel f—ked up. I have no f—king city or home to go
to. My mother has no home, her people have no home, and their people
have no home. Every f—king body has no home. So do I want to dedicate
something to Hurricane Katrina? Yeah, tell that b—h to suck my d—k. That
is my dedication.
22. I am the beast! Feed me rappers or feed me beats.
Lil
Wayne mentions Katrina in his songs from time to time. He has a track
that rails against Bush for his response to the storm. But, to his
credit, he doesn’t wallow in his city’s famous tragedy.
The
world needs to be told, and reminded, of what happened here. But New
Orleans is bigger and more spirited than the storm. So its favorite son
can be forgiven for refusing to let it define him. For my students, Lil
Wayne is good times and good memories, and enduring hometown pride. All
they ask of him is to keep making rhymes, as triumphant and strange as
the city itself.
23. Ever since I was little, I lived life numb
Michael stopped coming to school. His mother told me, “He’s a man now. There’s nothing more I can do.”
Darius got kicked out for physically attacking a teacher.
I
have lots of happy stories, so I don’t mean to dwell on these two, but I
guess that’s just what teachers do in the summer months, replay the
ones that got away.
24.
I
read over this, and I got it all wrong. I fetishize disaster. I live in
the best city in the world and all I can write about is hurricanes and
dropouts.
25.
One time,
after they finished a big test I gave them last period, my students
started happily singing Lil Wayne’s “La La La” on their way outside.
“Come on, Ramsey, sing along, you know it.”
And so I did. “Born in New Orleans, raised in New Orleans, I will forever remain faithful New Orleans….”
That I
wasn’t
from New Orleans didn’t much matter, so long as I was game to clap and
dance and sing. It was a clear and sunny day, Lil Wayne was the greatest
rapper alive, and school was out. It was time to have fun.