by Sonia Patel
“Yeah. But DVus got permission from the dude in charge of the Moloka’i branch of the Conservancy to use the pavilion area only. As payback, 4eva Flowin’ members do volunteer work for the Conservancy.” In the dark, I think I see Pono’s bright ivories so he’s probably smiling big. He captures my hand and adds, “I really hope you get to see the pavilion all hip hopped.”
“Me too,” I say staring at his hand over mine, my eyes widening. In that instant, I’m jealous of Emily because I bet he does this to her all the time. And means it. He lets go after a couple of seconds. I slide my hands under my thighs. They need to be trapped so I don’t grab his hand back. But I can’t stop my lips from curving up in the dark.
Prof turns left onto Kala’e Highway and begins the drive up to Pala’au. I’m sitting there with my dippy grin. I listen to the 411 on 4eva Flowin’s inception. DVus started it about a year ago to give Moloka’i youth a creative outlet. And for some, a way to stay out of trouble.
“DVus grew up with some hardcore family problems,” Prof says. “And he was addicted to coke and heroin for years. Flowin’ got him sober.” Prof stops. Then with indifference in his voice he adds, “I think you know DVus already. It’s Mark.”
“Not!” I exclaim, trying to fathom how it is that both Pono and Mark are MCs. I let my thoughts wrap around the newfound fact that Mark—I mean DVus—and I share two things in common. He’d said he could relate to a line near the end of my slam poem. I wonder if he had to save his mom too. Plus rap’s our savior. I blurt, “Rap saved his life yo!”
“Yeah for sure,” Prof says.
But doesn’t alcohol count as drugs?
Do good intentions trump full-blown sobriety? I mean he started 4eva Flowin’ to help youth on Moloka’i. That’s pretty darn altruistic. I think about the day I read my poem to Mark. It was a pre-audition. Only I didn’t know it. More upward lip curving. Yep, good intentions trump full-blown sobriety.
I turn to Pono and inquire, “So, what’s your story with 4eva Flowin’?”
“MC Irraz was my in. He and I spent hours rhyming last summer.”
“Nice.”
“By the way, MC Irraz is Omar.”
“Et tu, Omar! Nooooo waaayyzzz!” Now I’m completely blown away. To da max. My three favorite people are MCs. This is the best day of my life.
“Yeah and his flowin’ is off the chain. He’s been doing it for years. He said it helps him deal with his dad being in lockdown. Sometimes he sends his dad rap instead of regular letters.”
I nod, imagining his dad’s reaction to reading the rap.
“Speaking of Omar, did I ever tell you that the first time I noticed you was last year when he was clowning you. And you threw your head back in laughter. Your laugh. It was so real.” I swear I see him licking his lips, all LL Cool J.
I tilt my head to the side, my eyebrows contracted and my lips pursed. I eye him like he just declared that he saw blue and purple polka dot pua’a flying. I think Pono picks up on my puzzlement because he clears his throat like he’s nervous. Then he backtracks lickety-split. “Anyway, Omar and Mark are next door neighbors so they used to collab all the time.”
“Cool. So much talent on Waieli Street.” I peer out into the darkness, ignoring images of Pono’s inviting tongue and lip action. Redirecting the convo to him might help. So I prop my elbow on the gleaming window sill and lean my head on my hand. “Ok Pono—I mean Prof—you gotta help me out here. Ukulele makes sense. But how the heck did you, a Moloka’i boy born and raised, get into MCing?”
“I’ve been listening to hip hop for as long as I can remember. But anger got me to write my first rhyme. You know, the activist meetings.” I nod because I get it. Then what he says next throws me off again. “That was the second time I noticed you. When you were testifying at a water meeting last year. I thought…” He cuts himself off. He coughs, then backpedals again. “I wanted to make my words about Native Hawaiian rights more powerful. Turns out rhyming helped me do that. The rest is history.”
“Word.”
“How about you?”
“Writing rhymes gets me through the fights my parents have—” I stop. Reality hits. Reality sucks. “Had,” I correct.
“Is that why you ran out of the EPA meeting? Because your dad showed up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I ran after you, but you were already driving away.” He pauses. “After you left, your dad gave his testimony. And it was really good.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was. I think he has good intentions. But don’t you think it’s hypocritical to care so much about the water but destroy your own family?”
Good intentions don’t trump full-blown family destruction.
“Is that what’s going on?”
“Yeah. My mom kicked him out the other day because he’s got another woman.” I scoff. “I mean, another girl. Wendy Nagaoki. The girl who came to the meeting with him.”
I glance at Pono and despite the dark I can tell he’s pensive. Can’t Truss It starts, and the unforgettable intro fills the brief silence. Then Chuck D starts rapping.
“The roses were for Wendy?—you know, that day at Moana’s?” Pono’s putting two and two together.
“Yeah.” I’m surprised Pono remembers. I stare out the window with my head resting on my palm.
“Yo Sutra, you ok?”
Hearing Pono call me Sutra evokes a sense of righteousness in me. Or maybe it’s Public Enemy’s defiant rhymes. I face Pono and slowly expound, like I’m testifying at a public hearing. “You know, my dad’s not some perfect advocate of Native Hawaiian rights. He’s not thinking about them when he sells them cigarettes and alcohol at the store.” I’m picturing La’akea. “I mean everyone knows that booze and smokes totally ruined their pre-Western contact good health.”
“Absolutely.”
It’s comfortable up here, on my moral high horse. I’m about to say more. To gallop into righteous neverland.
But Pono changes the subject. “Sorry I brought up your dad. Don’t think about him anymore right now. Tonight you’ve got to bring it.”
I nod, let go of the reins, and watch the noble stallion ride away into the recesses of my mind.
“There’s a killer DJ in the crew, DJ Skittles. He’ll be there tonight. Talk to him when we get there. He’s a sick beat maker and he’ll lay one out for you.”
“Nice.” The thought of performing “Girl in Effect” to a beat makes me dizzy with excitement. My naked rhymes will finally get a phat outfit.
We pull into the parking lot at Pala’au. Pono stops the truck but leaves the engine on. “You ok?”
“Chillin.” I’m trying to hide that inside I’m buggin’ out.
“Ok, let’s do this.”
He shuts the engine off and we step out into the cool Moloka’i night. I glance up. The ironwoods look like fluffy giants floating in the night sky. We walk across the damp grass towards the dimly lit A-frame. It’s the only evidence of human existence at Pala’au.
Pono asks, “What’s your rap about?”
“Bravado.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Confidence and me—we’re not friends. So in this rap I pretend…” I stop and push my glasses back up my nose. I decide to give him a little spontaneous taste instead. A morsel to help him understand why I wrote a bravado rap. The words come together easily and I spit.
It’s the me
I want to be.
The large and in charge person
I want the world to see.
So I MC, and throw down
my self-confidence decree
and strive to be
my own queen bee.
“Damn skippy! I can’t wait to hear it.” We walk in silence the rest of the way. When we get near the A-frame steps, he says, “You know, Sutra, I’ve always thought you’re amazing.”
I hear the words but they don’t register because right when he says it, my ears get flooded with heart-thumping bass.
FAKE ASS BR
AVADO
Last time I was at Pala’au, it was the sound of roosters crowing that got my attention. But as we ascend the steps to the A-frame tonight, it’s the 808 from the blasting speakers that slams us. In a good way. 808 in the 808 state.
Pono and I enter the wooden A-frame. A strong, dank smell hangs over everything.
Who’s lighting up?
We cut through the haze. DJ Skittles comes into view. He’s standing behind a narrow table against the copper-brown planks of the back wall. Almost immediately I forget about who’s toking because Skittles transitions to Black Sheep’s The Choice is Yours. The catchy opening is an astringent that fills my pores and refreshes me. I stare wide-eyed at his DJ gear: turntables, mixer, drum machine, a stack of vinyl, and a bunch of complicated-looking musical gadgets.
Then Mark walks over and distracts me from sizing up the DJ’s effects. “If it isn’t MC Sutra and Prof.”
I’m about to say, “Yo wuzzup,” still flying high from Black Sheep. And maybe a little from all the Mary Jane smoke. But then I see Mark’s fresh outfit and I smash into Mt. Oh-My-God-He-Looks-So-Hot. Red Kangol bucket hat. Bright red Nautica jacket. Baggy jeans. Red and black Air Jordans.
“Yo,” Pono says.
I shove my hands in my pockets and shift in my stance several times. Standing there between the two flyboys makes me a little woozy. I have to focus on keeping my knees from buckling under the weight of my nervousness. So all I can manage to say is an unoriginal and pitiful, “Hey.” My eyes sweep the room. I count twelve people, all guys. Except me. Remarkably, I know about a third of them. Mark, Pono, Omar, and Stan Lee.
Mark notices me looking at Stan Lee. He rests his elbow on my shoulder and gives a chin-up in Stan’s direction. With his lips close to my ear, he whispers, “That’s Black Seoul.”
I nod without changing my blank expression. But inside there’s a mix of giddiness from having Mark’s lips practically on my ear and apprehension from the Stan Lee sighting.
It’s sinking in. The reality of the audition. The reality that I’m going to have to get myself up there in front of all these guys and rap. So I don’t freak out, I divert my attention to working out who the other guys are. I recognize several of them from around town. The rest I’ve never seen. For sure they aren’t MHIS students.
Stan Lee marches over and plants himself directly in front of me. My eyes start at the floorboards where he’s standing and work their way up. His feet, in killer dark blue and tan Puma’s with fat dark blue laces, are firmly planted. They’re a little farther than hip width apart and slightly out. He’s wearing a dark blue Puma tracksuit. His shoulders are hiked and his arms are tightly crossed. He’s leaning his body back a bit. His expression is a subtle frown. The hardcore b-boy stance he’s giving me tells me he doesn’t like that I’m here.
“Wassup, Stan Lee,” I mumble.
No words. Only major stink eye. Like he’s trying to use The Force to put me six feet under. I take a step back. But Stan Lee steps up to me and glares. He’s so close I can smell cigarettes. He snaps, “Sure you can keep up with the big boys?”
Hate emanates from him. I can’t for the life of me figure out why he’s so pissed. I’m startled and my fear is the glue that seals my lips.
“Are you deaf?” he asks, inching forward and stopping only when he’s totally in my face.
“No,” I finally stammer. I avoid his eyes.
Pono steps between Stan Lee and me. He opens his mouth to say something. Mark beats him to it. Throwing his arm around my shoulder, Mark says, “Sutra’s gonna be in full effect tonight.”
I breath a sigh of relief as Mark leads me away. I turn my head back to spock Stan Lee’s reaction.
He spins around and stomps off, muttering, “You don’t belong here, little girl.”
Before I look forward again, I notice Pono. His head is sagged down, his nose wrinkled, and his lips are in a slight pout.
Is he disappointed?
I’m about to call out to him to see if he’s ok, but Mark starts talking.
“Forget about it, Sutra,” he consoles. Pointing to Skittles, he says, “You’d better get over there and figure out your beat.
I walk over to Skittles and Black Sheep’s beats and rhymes mollify my uneasiness from Stan Lee’s intimidation. I walk a little taller. By the time I get to Skittles, my game face is on.
“Sup.” I say, greeting him with a chin-up.
He gives me one back and smiles. Then he asks me to spit a verse for him. I rhyme about a third of my first verse and he stops me. I watch him work his magic. Fingers pressing buttons, turning knobs, sliding levers, and flipping switches. His long, straight blonde hair is tied back in a low ponytail. I’m guessing he’s about twenty. He’s wearing low-riding boardshorts. Nothing else. I’m envisioning washing some clothes on his abs when he passes me the headphones.
I give him a goofy smile and listen. I guess I figured beatmaking is his part-time gig and that he’s probably laid out some disco and funk samples over a simple drum beat. But what I hear is beyond expectation. Way beyond. “No way,” I whisper, gripping the earpads and nodding my head. Kinda like Prince Paul, Skittles layered unexpected musical samples onto a combination of different drum hits. I recognize some of the samples. But what amazes me the most is his use of some of the melody and bass line from Queen Latifah’s Fly Girl. And then there’s the drum sounds. So complex. I’m sure he’s used the drum machine and individual drum hit samples from records. A snare and kick, for sure. I muffle an ecstatic “yeah!” listening to his one-of-a-kind musical collage that’ll be the background for my rap.
Still savoring the beat, I hear Mark’s mic check. I give the headphones back to Skittles.
“Mic check 1-2, 1-2. Yo, it’s audition night. We’ve got four MC’s throwin’ it down,” he says, with the confidence of Ed Lover from Yo MTV Raps! “Rules are simple. Perform one rap. That’s it. You’ll be judged on your content, flow, and crowd skills.”
Mark walks closer to the back wall where I’m standing and catches my eye. I hold my breath. He’s got this Color Me Badd look. I restrain myself from crying out, “I Wanna Sex You Up, Mark!” Mark keeps eye contact with me and says, “So bring it hard.” Then he moves in the other direction and says, “MC Kanaka, you’re up first.” I exhale and fan myself with my hand.
Kanaka takes the mic and gets right to it. I become drenched in self-doubt. His lyrics are riveting and complex in meaning. Similar to Paris. But it’s Kanaka’s delivery that especially astounds me—super fast, like a tornado. I’m so juiced up by it that I wish I had closed captioning so I could rap with him. It feels like I need to release this combo of excitement and uncertainty bubbling up in me.
Stan Lee must have picked up on my jitters. With uncanny timing, he stands behind me. “Sure you can handle it?” Then he moves next to me. He’s got this scowl that unnerves me. I look back at Kanaka and make like Stan Lee’s not there. But his question echos in my mind. I answer it.
No.
MC Kanaka finishes and throws up a peace sign. I’m covered in a veil of cold sweat.
Riz-Al’s up next. He raps about his Filipino family, giving them props for how they “raised right” him and his three brothers. His feel-good rhymes, mellow delivery, and steez are impressive. Reminiscent of Q-tip. The vibe he brings is chill. Like a lazy Sunday afternoon. Like I’m at his family barbeque and his mom’s serving up some delish lumpia. I smack my lips at the thought and feel calmer.
Kamikaze’s turn. He grabs the mic and comes on strong. He rocks the room with his rhyming social commentary on modern day racial oppression. I can’t help but think of KRS One and the By All Means Necessary album. His tight lyrics make his message undeniably compelling. They rile me up like we’re at an activist meeting. Kamikaze wraps up and I watch him hand off the mic to Mark.
That means I’m next. My stomach curls in on itself. Then my throat tries to choke itself. I clasp my clammy hands behind my back.
Run away while you
still can!
But anxiety’s a trickster and it won’t let my legs move. Worse, I’m sinking into quicksand.
Mark gets on the mic. “The final MC is the first girl to audition for 4eva Flowin’.”
Too late. I shut my eyes and go to my memory palace, caging the apprehension in the dungeon. From the palace’s lyrical lab, I retrieve my rap from one shelf and the relevant feelings from another. I weld together the emotions and rhymes. I open my eyes.
You can do this. You’re in the zone. You’re ready.
Then I hear nothing except my breathing. Air in. Air out.
I take the mic from Mark. His mouth is moving. His lips read, “Knock ‘em dead, Rani.”
Without warning, my hearing returns to normal. Something clicks and the fake courage I’ve written about seeps from the depths of my wanna-be MC soul. So much so that an impromptu introduction easily flows from my mouth, shocking me. I go with it.
This was my evolution
into rap elocution.
Nonviolently battling persecution,
putting misogynists in verbal correctional institutions.
Call my solution a female revolution,
retribution in the form of rhyme electrocution.
My underground contribution
calling out mainstream rap—counterrevolution.
instead of rap about bitches and hoes,
wish the radio would overflow
with my kind o’ flow,
so here goes.
DJ Skittles drops my beat and I spit.
You be judgin’ this book by its cover,
killing this mockingbird only to discover
at its core a fascinatin’ soul,
changin’ yo life like an ancient scroll.
I’m a kung fu master
kickin’ your small-minded game,
recipe for disaster.
Your school’s headmaster, throwin’ a wrench
in your man’s plan, clenchin’
my fists as I drench you in my
lyrical flow and drop you into the trench
with your woman-hating stench.
