Photo | Elena Senechal-Becker

Carving a space within the intersections

Hip-hop and rap music have always been employed as a voice for the disenfranchised. I have always appreciated and been drawn to them as spaces where dominant, oppressive narratives can be deconstructed and reimagined in more fruitful, understanding ways. Some of my fondest memories include delving into hip-hop’s genre-defying archive, exploring a discography that invites the listener to penetrate its bass and kick drum armour to uncover a swelling ocean of personality and intimacy.

But whether I’m listening to Nas’ critically acclaimed Queensbridge flow; Mobb Deep’s visceral narration of street life; Kendrick Lamar’s faithfulness to rap’s lineage; or the masterpieces created by the hundreds of other artists who have impacted me in one way or another, I sometimes find myself wondering whether my queerness (or anyone else’s for that matter) has a place in the world of hip-hop.

In a 2005 interview with MTV, Kanye West made the now-iconic observation that “everybody in hip-hop discriminates against gay people… matter of fact, the exact opposite word of hip-hop is ‘gay.’” Undoubtedly, the relationship between hip-hop and LGBTQ+ identity has historically existed on tenuous ground. But this relationship goes much deeper than Macklemore and Mary Lambert’s relatively simplistic illustration in “Same Love.” From the rise of homohop in California in the 1990s as an attempt to unify queer artists with hip-hop culture, to the modern-day critical acclaim of queer artists like Young M.A., Kevin Abstract, and Syd the Kyd, hip-hop has blended, partitioned, and challenged notions of queerness since the genre’s conception.

Hip-hop has historically revolved around male-dominated, heterosexual, and binary conceptions of love and sexual fulfillment. The genre’s most quintessential and foundational artists, from Grandmaster Flash, to Wu-Tang Clan, to N.W.A, have utilized homophobic slurs and proudly displayed homophobic attitudes throughout their careers. Contemporary hip-hop continues to champion the heterosexual male and heterosexual female. In a 2014 interview, T-Pain stated that “radio is getting more gay-friendly [but] I don’t think urban music is getting more gay-friendly because if that was the case, Frank Ocean would be on a lot more songs.”

Rappers consistently and often aggressively avoid anything that falls out of a binding heterosexual binary. Offset was recently in hot water for his verse in YFN Lucci’s song, “Boss Life,” where he raps: “I do not vibe with queers / I got the heart of a bear / I bust ‘em down by the pair.” Eminem has continuously weaponized the use of anti-gay slurs to shame and emasculate his opponents. Kanye West’s compelling introspection and bold comments regarding the marginalization of queer identity in hip-hop were ironically and disappointingly stained by his use of the antiquated phrase, “no homo” in his verse in Jay-Z’s “Run this Town.” His contemporaries like Lil Wayne, Future, Nas, 50 Cent, Busta Rhymes, T.I., and various others, continuously employ homophobic slurs to denote weakness and inadequacy, and insinuate that the only path to success in rap or hip-hop is through protecting and promoting hyper heteronormative ways of being.

Despite the records and features with outdated phrases or lyrics, and controversial antics that cause friction between hip-hop and queer identity, hip-hop continuously and characteristically rejects stillness. Respectfully, I disagree with T-Pain’s position that rap and hip-hop music is failing to become more gay-friendly. As the elusive Kanye West stated more than a decade ago, “Hip-hop is about fighting for your rights, speaking your mind, and breaking down barriers.” Recently, Jay-Z’s “Smile feat. Gloria Carter” on the Grammy-nominated 4:44 shared the process of coming out with a global audience. Kid Cudi and Ty Dolla $ign took to social media to denounce homophobia in the hip-hop community, following the tragic 2016 Pulse shooting in Orlando. Toronto’s own Blockorama is the longest running event at Pride Toronto, and continuously provides a space for racialized LGBTQ+ rappers and hip-hop artists to thrive. A Tribe Called Quest’s record, “Georgie Porgie,” was held by many to be one of the most anti-gay songs to ever come out of rap. Yet the group has grown to recognize and criticize active discrimination of gay people on their recent track, “We the people…” Jaden Smith and A$AP Rocky boldly show off the gender-fluid fashion pieces in their wardrobes, interrupting a strong current of clean-cut gender binaries in contemporary hip-hop. Between Frank Ocean’s magnificently intimate and poetic honesty and Young M.A.’s fearless exploration of her own sexual identity, lies an ocean of rappers recognizing and encouraging the turning tides in hip-hop’s relationship with queerness.

At the end of the day, however, hip-hop’s relationship with queerness is inseparable from society’s relationship with queerness. As artists and producers continuously influence and are continuously influenced by society’s growth and ethical reimagining of queerness as something innately complex, common, and human, the bold lines where hip-hop begins and queerness ends become fainter. It hasn’t arrived at this alliance yet—queer-identifying rappers like Mykki Blanco, Cakes da Killa, and Le1f still work in the penumbra of mainstream success, despite existing and producing art faithful to their experiences. J. Cole, The Game, 50 Cent, and others have shakily attempted to provide questionable and somewhat problematic constructive comments on homophobia in hip-hop. But hip-hop is gradually breaking out of its aphasia, or inability to speak about queer identity, at a time when its influence is needed the most. Hip-hop’s historical position as a bridging process for the disenfranchised allows it to play an integral artistic and social role in the relationships queerness develops within society.