On Hope and Home (and Hip-Hop)

Thursday, June 19, 2025

Juneteenth

Mark Wesley (he/they)

Board Member, LOVEboldly

Ever Doubtful Queer Christian

“The truth is, if we don't write our own stories, there is someone waiting to do it for us. And those people, waiting with their pens, often don't look like we do and don't have our best interests in mind."

"When you watch hope closely enough, manifested in enough people, you can start to feel it too."

Abdurraqib, H., Reynolds, J., & Ewing, E. L. (2022).

They can’t kill us until they kill us.

Growing up in the Washington D.C/Maryland area, I was surrounded by a lot of sounds. It’s hard to forget the roaring of the approaching Metro train, expertly layered drums from my favorite go-go bands, or the crunch of my aunties from Baltimore cracking open crab legs for us to eat. These sounds were paint on the canvas that was home for me. It's quite hard to imagine the DMV without it.

The stories you hear about Baltimore these days are seldom kind, but also are not unique. Chicago, Jacksonville, Philadelphia and other cities have been deemed lawless wastelands by television pundits and online media personalities alike. I just recently came across a video of a white man walking through the streets of Philly shoving a camera into poor, disenfranchised people’s faces who are in desperate need of care. In the eyes of many, especially those who actually live in these cities, these narratives are incredibly harmful, frustrating, and disheartening.

This is why it is imperative that we, as Black and Brown people, tell our stories ourselves. I'm consuming hip-hop every day that I am able to. It is the soundtrack to the disenfranchised and more than any other genre, it is able to provide a real snapshot of what life is like for people in these communities. "People live our lives to this music," Kendrick Lamar once said in an interview. And it's true. I grew up listening to and admiring Black creatives both in front of the mic and behind the production booth. The stories that I heard in those records, I believe, fundamentally changed me as a person. It taught me, even way back then, that blackness is beautiful and worth preserving.

In his essay on Chance the Rapper, writer/poet Hanif Abdurraqib speaks on the Chicago rapper and how quite a few rappers are their own city's hometown hero. “The interior of the land is layered,” he writes. “Yes, sometimes with blood, but sometimes with bodies marching, with bodies moving, with bodies flooded into

the streets or dancing at the roller rink.” This passage resonated with me deeply because throughout my adult life, I’ve learned that my feelings about home are mine. No one can take them away from me. My Blackness is one that has been shaped by DMV music, art, and food. It's baked within my DNA.

Action

There is so much hatred in our world right now that, frankly, taking a moment to stop and listen to music feels like wasting time. Trust me I completely understand.

Here's my suggestion: go listen to some hip-hop. Maybe you're thinking, "what, really?" Yes, I'm serious. During the darkest periods of my life, I found myself gravitating towards music that deeply speaks to my marginalized existence. Letting yourself be enveloped by this music is one of life's true pleasures. Seek out local artists that speak to you. For my marginalized family, don’t let people write your stories for you. Please share with us, we need it now more than ever.

Reflection

I wanted to end with this question: As our country enters another incredibly dark period, how are you feeling about home and what sounds bring you back to that place?