She wanted to start a revolution through her music. She wanted to start a movement from her lyrics. That’s what she was put on this earth to do, she knew it. She sat on her bed flipping through rap magazines visualizing the day that she would be a feature. She knew that she wouldn’t be sleeping in the attic for long. She was going to revolutionize the game.
She was that old hip-hop—a rapper that had something to say. Bragging about material things was something that she wasn’t interested in. She wanted to stimulate people’s minds. She wanted to give them something to think about.
She got out her pen, put on her headphones and blasted a beat. She bobbed her head and glided her hand over her legal pad effortlessly.
She hated the way women were portrayed in hip-hop—particularly black women. She made sure that she went against that. She wanted to be real as they come. No image. No gimmick. She wanted to show the power of women. She wanted to uplift them.
You see I’m start a movement, more like a “power to my sistas” movement/Cause my sistas are who I’m tryna influence.
She wrote on her legal pad.
Sometimes she felt like she was born in the wrong era. She should’ve been around in the 60s—the Black Panther movement, where history was being made and people fought for change. In the 21st Century, people seemed materialistic and shallow. People only seemed concern with designer labels and questioning whether certain women parts were real or not. She shook her head. It was sad that the realness of a woman’s ass…literally the realness a woman’s ass is often questioned.
Thinking about the days when women hated to be called bitches/Nowadays dudes disguise the word “bad” with it/And silly girls seem so glad with it.
She continued to nod her head to the beat. She wondered exactly when women allowed themselves to be called a bitch. And apparently a “bad bitch” was supposed to be a compliment. She didn’t understand how the phrase was complimentary. She found it degrading.
Sometimes I feel like women fail to see/When it comes to men we are nothing but a commodity/And we’re always having a ménage á trios cause we’re a part of three/Money, hoes and cars you see.
She felt those bars in her soul. Sometimes she felt like women were viewed as possessions, especially in the rap game. A man’s stature goes up when he has numerous of beautiful women on his arm. She hated that her gender wasn’t often viewed as equals.
But power to the women/He tryna take you home cause he wonderin’ how you feelin’/And you lowerin’ yo standards just to try and fit in.
“The things we do for men,” she muttered.
But aim high young girl/Don’t be afraid to aim for the sky young girl.
Despite everything, she refused to give up on her fellow women. Her gender was just as strong, if not stronger, than men. And she was going to make sure that everyone knew that.
He talkin’ in yo ear prominsin’ you the world/You degrade yoself just to be anotha girl.
She paused for a moment and glanced at her rap magazine.
Excuse me I’m just sittin’ here reminiscing, on better ways and better days.