New Music: Macklemore - White Privilege II (Iggy Diss) Update: clarifies 'f--- America' comments: 'I'm not ok. I haven't been'
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How can you call yourself a black ally while occupying a white body and getting rich off black music? In theHamilton-esque song, Macklemore references marching with Black Lives Matter (which he did after the Michael Brown decision) but feeling unworthy of the cause: "Okay, I'm saying that they're chanting out, 'Black lives matter,' but I don't say it back / Is it okay for me to say? I don't know, so I watch and stand in front of a line of police that look the same as me."
But Macklemore is also quick to acknowledge that he isn't the first or last white person to appropriate black culture: He name-checks Elvis Presley, Miley Cyrus, and Iggy Azalea, taking specific aim at Azalea's music for being "fascist and backwards." "Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic / You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in / You're branded 'hip-hop,' it's so fascist and backwards / That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard / All the money that you made / All the watered-down pop bullshit version of the culture, pal," he raps. It all comes to a head when Jamila Woods — who stole the show on Donnie Trumpet & the Social Experiment's "Sunday Candy" — floats in at the last minute to drop the kicker on Macklemore's latest think piece: "Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury."
But Macklemore is also quick to acknowledge that he isn't the first or last white person to appropriate black culture: He name-checks Elvis Presley, Miley Cyrus, and Iggy Azalea, taking specific aim at Azalea's music for being "fascist and backwards." "Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic / You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in / You're branded 'hip-hop,' it's so fascist and backwards / That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard / All the money that you made / All the watered-down pop bullshit version of the culture, pal," he raps. It all comes to a head when Jamila Woods — who stole the show on Donnie Trumpet & the Social Experiment's "Sunday Candy" — floats in at the last minute to drop the kicker on Macklemore's latest think piece: "Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury."
This isn't an Iggy diss.
Macklemore is just another hypster and practically every white musician alive has appropriated black music. You either admit it or ignore it. That's the rules
They're pretty much the same person.
Why would he feel funny about chanting black lives matter?
If he truly loved black people he wouldn't think twice.
His shit ain't coming from the heart.
Why would he feel funny about chanting black lives matter?
If he truly loved black people he wouldn't think twice.
His shit ain't coming from the heart.
All crackers are Cracker ass Crackers. Every single one of you devils.
Hell nah Will gave us Summertime.That shit will still get burn in the year 3,000.
This cac just searching for co-signs.
Both these troglodytes can down a shot of cyanide
he called her a fascist
[Verse 1]
Pulled into the parking lot, parked it
Zipped up my parka, joined the procession of marchers
In my head like, "Is this awkward, should I even be here marching?"
Thinking if they can't, how can I breathe?
Thinking that they chant, what do I sing?
I want to take a stance cause we are not free
And then I thought about it, we are not we
Am I in the outside looking in, or am I in the inside looking out?
Is it my place to give my two cents
Or should I stand on the side and shut my mouth for justice? No peace
Okay, I'm saying that they're chanting out, "Black lives matter", but I don't say it back
Is it okay for me to say? I don't know, so I watch and stand
In front of a line of police that look the same as me
Only separated by a badge, a baton, a can of Mace, a mask
A shield, a gun with gloves and hands that gives an alibi
In case somebody dies behind a bullet that flies out of the 9
Takes another child's life on sight
[Hook]
Blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
There's blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
Blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
There's blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
(Ben, think about it)
[Verse 2]
You've exploited and stolen the music, the moment
The magic, the passion, the fashion, you toy with
The culture was never yours to make better
You're Miley, you're Elvis, you're Iggy Azalea
Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic
You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in
You're branded hip-hop, it's so fascist and backwards
That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard
All the money that you made
All the watered down pop bullshit version of the culture, pal
Go buy a big-ass lawn, go with your big-ass house
Get a big-ass fence, keep people out
It's all stubborn, anyway, can't you see that now?
There's no way for you to even that out
You can join the march, protest, scream and shout
Get on Twitter, hashtag and seem like you're down
But they see through it all, people believe you now
You said publicly, "Rest in peace, Mike Brown"
You speak about equality, but do you really mean it?
Are you marching for freedom, or when it's convenient?
Want people to like you, want to be accepted
That's probably why you are out here protesting
Don't think for a second you don't have incentive
Is this about you, well, then what's your intention?
What's the intention? What's the intention?
[Verse 3]
Psst, I totally get it, you're by yourself
And the last thing you want to do is take a picture
But seriously, my little girl loves you
She's always singing, "I'm gonna pop some tags"
I'm not kidding, my oldest, you even got him to go thrifting
And "One Love," oh, my God, that song – brilliant
Their aunt is gay, when that song came out
My son told his whole class he was actually proud
That's so cool, look what you're accomplishing
Even an old mom like me likes it cause it's positive
You're the only hip-hop that I let my kids listen to
Cause you get it, all that negative stuff isn't cool
Yeah, like all the guns and the drugs
The bitches and the hoes and the gangs and the thugs
Even the protest outside – so sad and so dumb
If a cop pulls you over, it's your fault if you run
Huh?
[Interlude: Multiple voices]
So, they feel that the police are discriminating against the, the black people?I have an advantage? Why? Cause I'm white? What? Haha. No.People nowadays are just pussies. Like, this is the generation to be offended by everything.Black Lives Matter thing is a reason to take arms up over perceived slights. I'm not prejudiced, I just–.99% of the time across this country, the police are doing their job properly
[Verse 4]
Damn, a lot of opinions, a lot of confusion, a lot of resentment
Some of us scared, some of us defensive
And most of us aren't even paying attention
It seems like we're more concerned with being called racist
Than we actually are with racism
I've heard that silences are action and God knows that I've been passive
What if I actually read a article, actually had a dialogue
Actually looked at myself, actually got involved?
If I'm aware of my privilege and do nothing at all, I don't know
Hip-hop has always been political, yes
It's the reason why this music connects
So what the fuck has happened to my voice if I stay silent when black people are dying
Then I'm trying to be politically correct?
I can book a whole tour, sell out the tickets
Rap entrepreneur, built his own business
If I'm only in this for my own self-interest, not the culture that gave me a voice to begin with
Then this isn't authentic, it is just a gimmick
The DIY underdog, so independent
But the one thing the American dream fails to mention
Is I was many steps ahead to begin with
My skin matches the hero, likeness, the image
America feels safe with my music in their systems
And it's suited me perfect, the role, I've fulfilled it
And if I'm the hero, you know who gets cast as the villain
White supremacy isn't just a white dude in Idaho
White supremacy protects the privilege I hold
White supremacy is the soil, the foundation, the cement and the flag that flies outside of my home
White supremacy is our country's lineage, designed for us to be indifferent
My success is the product of the same system that let off Darren Wilson—guilty
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?
[Interlude: Multiple voices]
Black Lives Matter, to use an analogy, is like if there was a subdivision and a house was on fire. The fire department wouldn't show up and start putting water on all the houses because all houses matter. They would show up and they would turn their water on the house that is burning because that's the house that needs it the most. My generation's taken on the torch of a very age-old fight for black liberation, but also liberation for everyone, and injustice anywhere is still injustice everywhere. The best thing white people can do is talk to each other. And having those very difficult, very painful conversations with your parents, with your family members. I think one of the critical questions for white people in this society is what are you willing to risk, what are you willing to sacrifice to create a more just society?
[Outro: Jamila Woods]
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
Pulled into the parking lot, parked it
Zipped up my parka, joined the procession of marchers
In my head like, "Is this awkward, should I even be here marching?"
Thinking if they can't, how can I breathe?
Thinking that they chant, what do I sing?
I want to take a stance cause we are not free
And then I thought about it, we are not we
Am I in the outside looking in, or am I in the inside looking out?
Is it my place to give my two cents
Or should I stand on the side and shut my mouth for justice? No peace
Okay, I'm saying that they're chanting out, "Black lives matter", but I don't say it back
Is it okay for me to say? I don't know, so I watch and stand
In front of a line of police that look the same as me
Only separated by a badge, a baton, a can of Mace, a mask
A shield, a gun with gloves and hands that gives an alibi
In case somebody dies behind a bullet that flies out of the 9
Takes another child's life on sight
[Hook]
Blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
There's blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
Blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
There's blood in the streets, no justice, no peace
No racist beliefs, no rest 'til we're free
(Ben, think about it)
[Verse 2]
You've exploited and stolen the music, the moment
The magic, the passion, the fashion, you toy with
The culture was never yours to make better
You're Miley, you're Elvis, you're Iggy Azalea
Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic
You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in
You're branded hip-hop, it's so fascist and backwards
That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard
All the money that you made
All the watered down pop bullshit version of the culture, pal
Go buy a big-ass lawn, go with your big-ass house
Get a big-ass fence, keep people out
It's all stubborn, anyway, can't you see that now?
There's no way for you to even that out
You can join the march, protest, scream and shout
Get on Twitter, hashtag and seem like you're down
But they see through it all, people believe you now
You said publicly, "Rest in peace, Mike Brown"
You speak about equality, but do you really mean it?
Are you marching for freedom, or when it's convenient?
Want people to like you, want to be accepted
That's probably why you are out here protesting
Don't think for a second you don't have incentive
Is this about you, well, then what's your intention?
What's the intention? What's the intention?
[Verse 3]
Psst, I totally get it, you're by yourself
And the last thing you want to do is take a picture
But seriously, my little girl loves you
She's always singing, "I'm gonna pop some tags"
I'm not kidding, my oldest, you even got him to go thrifting
And "One Love," oh, my God, that song – brilliant
Their aunt is gay, when that song came out
My son told his whole class he was actually proud
That's so cool, look what you're accomplishing
Even an old mom like me likes it cause it's positive
You're the only hip-hop that I let my kids listen to
Cause you get it, all that negative stuff isn't cool
Yeah, like all the guns and the drugs
The bitches and the hoes and the gangs and the thugs
Even the protest outside – so sad and so dumb
If a cop pulls you over, it's your fault if you run
Huh?
[Interlude: Multiple voices]
So, they feel that the police are discriminating against the, the black people?I have an advantage? Why? Cause I'm white? What? Haha. No.People nowadays are just pussies. Like, this is the generation to be offended by everything.Black Lives Matter thing is a reason to take arms up over perceived slights. I'm not prejudiced, I just–.99% of the time across this country, the police are doing their job properly
[Verse 4]
Damn, a lot of opinions, a lot of confusion, a lot of resentment
Some of us scared, some of us defensive
And most of us aren't even paying attention
It seems like we're more concerned with being called racist
Than we actually are with racism
I've heard that silences are action and God knows that I've been passive
What if I actually read a article, actually had a dialogue
Actually looked at myself, actually got involved?
If I'm aware of my privilege and do nothing at all, I don't know
Hip-hop has always been political, yes
It's the reason why this music connects
So what the fuck has happened to my voice if I stay silent when black people are dying
Then I'm trying to be politically correct?
I can book a whole tour, sell out the tickets
Rap entrepreneur, built his own business
If I'm only in this for my own self-interest, not the culture that gave me a voice to begin with
Then this isn't authentic, it is just a gimmick
The DIY underdog, so independent
But the one thing the American dream fails to mention
Is I was many steps ahead to begin with
My skin matches the hero, likeness, the image
America feels safe with my music in their systems
And it's suited me perfect, the role, I've fulfilled it
And if I'm the hero, you know who gets cast as the villain
White supremacy isn't just a white dude in Idaho
White supremacy protects the privilege I hold
White supremacy is the soil, the foundation, the cement and the flag that flies outside of my home
White supremacy is our country's lineage, designed for us to be indifferent
My success is the product of the same system that let off Darren Wilson—guilty
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?
We want to dress like, walk like, talk like, dance like, yet we just stand by
We take all we want from black culture, but will we show up for black lives?
[Interlude: Multiple voices]
Black Lives Matter, to use an analogy, is like if there was a subdivision and a house was on fire. The fire department wouldn't show up and start putting water on all the houses because all houses matter. They would show up and they would turn their water on the house that is burning because that's the house that needs it the most. My generation's taken on the torch of a very age-old fight for black liberation, but also liberation for everyone, and injustice anywhere is still injustice everywhere. The best thing white people can do is talk to each other. And having those very difficult, very painful conversations with your parents, with your family members. I think one of the critical questions for white people in this society is what are you willing to risk, what are you willing to sacrifice to create a more just society?
[Outro: Jamila Woods]
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
Your silence is a luxury, hip-hop is not a luxury
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
What I got for me, it is for me
Why we may, we made to set us free
wasn't sure how to embed the audio, but this is a very interesting radio segment (about 1/2 hour long)
about who gets to say what hip-hop is. As more white people listen to hip-hop, rap, etc, more white people are inspired to create rap.. and how their,uh- sensibilities, sneak into the music and the culture- and how white folks just appoint themselves authorities on what is good rap, and what is "real" hip-hop.
very interesting.
http://www.radiolab.org/story/straight-outta-chevy-chase/
truth.com quote @3:43- "there's never been a form of american popular music, as far as I know, that wasn't invented by black people and co-opted by white people"
we always talk about how we created this- then they took it.
we created that- then they came and took it.
I believe we are in the midst of hip hop being "taken" just like rock and roll was.
about who gets to say what hip-hop is. As more white people listen to hip-hop, rap, etc, more white people are inspired to create rap.. and how their,uh- sensibilities, sneak into the music and the culture- and how white folks just appoint themselves authorities on what is good rap, and what is "real" hip-hop.
very interesting.
http://www.radiolab.org/story/straight-outta-chevy-chase/
truth.com quote @3:43- "there's never been a form of american popular music, as far as I know, that wasn't invented by black people and co-opted by white people"
we always talk about how we created this- then they took it.
we created that- then they came and took it.
I believe we are in the midst of hip hop being "taken" just like rock and roll was.
thanks
I think they're trying, but aren't fully succeeding yet. Rock 'n' Roll was co-opted in its nascent years. Hip-hop was fully embedded as a black genre for about 20 years and it's money-making years are probably behind it. It's taken quite some time for white people to even figure out how to do hip-hop well, and even then those who can do it well are sporadic.
Right Summertime is a classic
Hip Hop will never be taken from it's originators, others may try to imitate it, but the essence, knowledge, and totally background foundation of it is set in stone and can't be taken.
I have no issue with the song, some of yall are tripping. He is probably as some of ya'll said feeling a mixture of guilt because of what some racist white folks are doing, but thats expected. He's doing what hip-hop is designed for, not doing some Iggy, Vannila Ice type shit, expressing on socialy conscious issues. Whats the problem here?
Plus the song is pretty dope to me.
Plus the song is pretty dope to me.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry...ction=us_black-voices&utm_hp_ref=black-voices
You're Miley, you're Elvis, you're Iggy Azalea
Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic
You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in
You're branded hip-hop, it's so fascist and backwards
That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard
All the money that you made
All the watered down pop-bullshit version of the culture, pal
Go buy a big-ass lawn, go with your big-ass house
Get a big-ass fence, keep people out
You're Miley, you're Elvis, you're Iggy Azalea
Fake and so plastic, you've heisted the magic
You've taken the drums and the accent you rapped in
You're branded hip-hop, it's so fascist and backwards
That Grandmaster Flash'd go slap it, you bastard
All the money that you made
All the watered down pop-bullshit version of the culture, pal
Go buy a big-ass lawn, go with your big-ass house
Get a big-ass fence, keep people out
good song
fakest dude doing it boy i tell you
come out with the thrift shop shit
use the black hook to propel your entire music career
try and endorse the old heads as a grasping straw to get street cred and get them old heads to shit on new black artists.
now making this song supposedly checking the white shit
its disgustingly disrespectful how he operates.
if you can't see him for who he is lol he's winning
come out with the thrift shop shit
use the black hook to propel your entire music career
try and endorse the old heads as a grasping straw to get street cred and get them old heads to shit on new black artists.
now making this song supposedly checking the white shit
its disgustingly disrespectful how he operates.
if you can't see him for who he is lol he's winning
http://www.vulture.com/2016/02/why-white-privilege-is-everyones-burden.html
For the duration of January 2016, it was the foremost topic of conversation. Seemingly each day meant another story about white privilege in the news. Watching this happen is exciting, but also overwhelming in the way it is whenever a new idea is introduced to the mainstream. From DeRay Mckesson teaching Stephen Colbert about the concept on The Late Showto Mark Ruffalo considering a boycott of this year’s very white Academy Awards on the basis of said privilege, it’s seeping into most corners of society, and quickly. The chatter has continued into February, most notably around how brash black and white quarterbacks are judged differently, in both success and failure. White privilege even made its way into the presidential race, when Hillary Clinton was asked in a forum what white privilege means to her and how she’s benefited from it. Clinton’s response could be described as “a collection of words.” While long, her answer was not good; clearly caught off-guard, she told a rambling story about babysitting for migrant farmers that ran out the clock but didn’t really connect with the question she was asked. But there was something refreshingly honest and earnest in her attempt. It was like watching someone try to hit a home run, only to strike out after realizing mid-swing that they’ve never played baseball. But even a clean, highly mulled-over answer to a question like this — the right answer — wouldn't necessarily mean someone has actually dealt with her or his own privilege. Again, it’s nothing more than words.
In that moment, we got raw Hillary Clinton, someone who still has a long way to go in dealing with white privilege, just like the majority of white people — and the majority of privileged people in general. And even though her answer was messy, at least she avoided the three most common pitfalls in discussing one’s own white privilege: pretending it doesn’t exist, saying it only applies to “some” white people (i.e., not them), and trying too hard to convince other people that they “get it.”
It was Clinton’s answer that raced back into my head when I first heard the song “White Privilege II” by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, on January 20, two days before its official release. The almost-nine-minute track is the follow-up to his 2005 song “White Privilege,” but to call it a sequel would be an oversimplification — it’s like graduating from high school and then graduating from college. The song is filled with scenes, from Macklemore struggling to figure out his role as a protester, to Macklemore playing the role of his critics, to Macklemore playing the part of his fans, some of whom have misguided opinions on the world. A handful of people were sent early streams of the song by Macklemore’s reps. I don’t know everyone who got a stream, but none of the people I knew who did were white. It was clear what was happening. The day before the song was released, “White Privilege II” emails were beginning to be traded. So, what’d they ask you? Wait, they hit you up about that, too? No one seemed to be insulted or taken aback; it was just funny. It was so Team Macklemore. The anxiety over how the nonwhites would perceive the song was understood and valid, but still nothing short of adorable.
The night before the track’s release, I spoke with two people who were involved in making it. Both were black, and both were happy about the song’s existence; or at least I assumed as much based on management’s willingness to make them available for interviews. The first was Dustin Washington, a Seattle-based community organizer and anti-racism advocate who runs the People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond. Washington said he’d met Ben (as he called Macklemore) over a year ago, after one of his reps reached out to ask how the rapper could get involved. As a precondition, Washington required that Macklemore attend a training session, “Undoing Racism,” with members of Youth Undoing Institutional Racism, which he did. Washington explained that his role in “White Privilege II” was mostly that of an adviser, helping to hone the song’s message for maximum positive impact in the anti-racism space. Washington says he sees Macklemore “on a journey to see himself as an anti-racist white organizer.” Journey is the word that hit me, because that truly was the best way to describe what the song represents.
The second person I spoke with was Jamila Woods, a singer and poet best known for her dreamy vocals on Donnie Trumpet and the Social Experiment’s 2015 rap hymn “Sunday Candy.” Once she got past theWhitePrivilege2.com talking points, Woods explained what it was like to be in the studio with Macklemore and Lewis — going to Seattle having never met the duo, filled with the skepticism of anyone who has seen Macklemore stumble publicly on race issues. But her fears were allayed. Her suggestions were listened to, she says, and she never felt like her blackness was being used as a prop. Discussing her vocals near the end of the song, Woods says, “I was really inspired by Audre Lorde. We were constantly watching things, pulling up YouTube videos of different conversations, reading articles. The idea of hip-hop not being a luxury came from the Audre Lorde ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’ essay.”
When people are taking leaps out of their comfort zones like this, be they artists, politicians, or just individuals having those first conversations, you can tell when they haven’t sought feedback from the right people — the people most comfortable in the space that causes others the most anxiety. Part of that “journey” Washington mentioned is getting to a point where, by virtue of your inner circle, you can wisely get someone like Woods in the room when you’re taking a second stab at tackling white privilege — especially in a climate in which so many people are hoping that you do it poorly.
The day the song was released, the response came in three main forms: Some people attempted to engage with it as a think piece in song form; others wrote it off as garbage before even listening; and much of the internet focused on the most gossip-worthy kernel from the song, the Iggy Azaela “diss”:
You’ve exploited and stolen the music, the moment
The magic, the passion, the fashion, you toy with
The culture was never yours to make better
You’re Miley, you’re Elvis, you’re Iggy Azalea.
Azalea didn’t like it, and took to Twitter to say so. Macklemore defended himself to Rolling Stone: “It’s an unpacking moment of internalized criticism and self-doubt, and ‘What have I done,’ and letting the criticism infiltrate who I am. ’Why am I insecure at a protest?’ And I think that people get put into boxes, and the conversation around cultural appropriation — I was at the forefront of that, rightfully so. And that conversation also included Miley Cyrus and Iggy Azalea, and that’s why their names are on the record.” The uproar continued, though, and spilled over into a Twitter spat between Azalea and Talib Kweli (“Hip hop come from oppression and struggle that u don't experience,” he told her), and aTMZ interview with rapper Machine Gun Kelly (who is white and isn’t mentioned in “White Privilege II”) in which he said, “Race is not an issue. Race is an issue for people like Macklemore. I'm comfortable in my own skin. I can't help other people be the same way.” (He later backtracked on those comments.)
So much of what happened immediately following the song’s release shows the journey of the Macklemore critic. When Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’s The Heist was nominated for the 2014 Best Rap Album Grammy alongside Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.D city, Macklemore was on Black America’s Most Wanted List. The assumption was that while Kendrick absolutely should have won, he would probably lose — because America. In the back of many minds, we wanted Macklemore to lose — but we also wanted Macklemore to win, to further prove to any doubters that life still isn’t fair, and that white privilege is alive and well.
So when Macklemore did beat Kendrick, white privilege was the only plausible explanation, and even Macklemore knew it. Macklemore was gracious in his acceptance speech, but then he went a step too far by apologizing to Kendrick in a text message, and then Instagramming that text for all to see. When asked about it, Kendrick responded, “When he sent it to me, I was like, ‘Okay, I could see him feelin’ that type of way’ because he’s a good dude. But I think for confirmation from the world, he probably felt the need to put it out there. He didn’t need to do [that].”
In the wake of all this, black people were mad at Macklemore, but white people were embarrassed. For many black people, Macklemore was just another person benefiting from white privilege, and there was no need to waste energy singling him out. But for white people — especially ones who considered themselves racially awakened — he represented their worst nightmare. Because seemingly every time Macklemore does anything, and is inevitably criticized for it, he makes many nonwhites question whether white people who “get it” really exist. He pops up, and suddenly, white people who have carefully crafted that image of “I’m white — ugh, white people are the worst, right? — but trust me, I get it” are exposed. So of course some of Macklemore’s biggest critics are the white people often referred to as woke.
The sheer premise of woke is comical, since it most certainly is a myth: Once a white person has fulfilled the necessary requirements to prove a true understanding of their white privilege, they are anointed (typically by black consignees) woke. You are an elevated, “awakened” white person. The term is the evolutionary advancement of down, a once-popular way to describe a white person who understands, or is even well-versed in, certain aspects of black culture (see: Julia Stiles by the end of Save the Last Dance). While down implied the sheer knowledge of things, woke is almost this assumed, inherent understanding. One can get there in a variety of ways: a racially savvy conversation on Twitter (that certainly could have just been a private text message); a selfie of one wearing a James Baldwin T-shirt while reading Just Mercy on the train; a lengthy Facebook post about how mad one is about that thing on that day; or questioning the intentions of lesser “woke” white people. It’s funny because, in actuality, there are few better examples of white privilege than white people crafting their own perfect “woke” narrative and having it work. Or bringing nonwhite people quickly into their inner circle and using them as a stamp of authenticity. Or thinking they can defuse skepticism in their ability to grasp their own white privilege with one action — a song, a conversation, a speech, a tweet — and actually succeed.
Grasping privilege should be messy, because there’s nothing clean about reverse-engineering one’s entire racial understanding. The most important part of the process is the trial and error. But for the “woke” white person (not too different from the rise of the self-proclaimed male feminist), there are no public mistakes, no mishaps, no fumbles — you just suddenly “get it.” And while these flawless, highly curated “woke” narratives should raise huge red flags that say, “Wait, what’s really going on here?” instead they’ve been used to exemplify how to be a good white person in this white society.
For years, we’ve put Macklemore through a particularly tough ringer — one that at times might not have even been fair. But it’s a necessary ringer. Because it’s the process of applying responsible skepticism. It’s like we’re telling him, “You’re getting better, but come back next year, and let’s see what you’ve got,” like he’s Red from The Shawshank Redemption, making annual appearances before the white privilege parole board. It’s rarely graceful, but every time Macklemore does or says anything involving race or his whiteness and gets criticized for it, he goes away and comes back a little wiser. Is he there yet with “White Privilege II”? No. Does he need to be put on a pedestal for making this song? No. But is this song a net positive? Yes: for the head start it might give young white kids in figuring things out, and for Macklemore’s ongoing journey, and for being a warning about the snap judgments we make about other people’s understanding of their privilege.
***
Naturally, all of this leads to the question: What, in practice, is a white person actually supposed to do, and how are nonwhite people supposed to respond? So many of these moments, these conversations, these dialogues are important, are inspirational, and can make it feel like we’re headed in the right direction. But then what? If there were a simple answer, we might already have a better, more just society. But that’s not how it is, mainly because the way forward requires everyone to give something up if they want to gain something in the distant, uncertain future.
As a black man, I can attest that it feels good at times to have an enemy, a scapegoat, someone to point at when things don't seem to go our way, racially. In a perfect world, white people just get better on their own, without any changes in my behavior. But that's never going to happen, so we have to let white people be messy if it’s part of a necessary journey. No, this doesn’t mean coddling those who have no real desire for change, nor does it mean giving free passes for sheer ignorance, but it does mean allowing for imperfection. Public imperfection. Dealing with one’s privilege shouldn’t have to happen behind closed doors. Nonwhites have long bonded together over the assumption that white people will never “get it.” And as strong — and at times important — as that unified distrust can be, it's no longer worth the cost of low expectations producing even lower results. Having the green light to say whatever I want about white mistakes made in public, with whatever words, in whatever tone, with minimal hesitation is one of my true black privileges. It’s something nonwhite people do because it’s one of the few remaining privileges that makes our lives easier. But, as therapeutic as it can be, it’s something I know I have to gradually learn to let go of if I want things to improve.
As for whites, what needs to be given up is pride and comfort. White privilege is like global warming — it’s very real. With every passing year, the present continuously overwhelms, constantly ignoring the lessons from the past, in order to feel some degree of progress. But issues between whites and nonwhites in America from generations ago are too cyclical to pretend that anything has been buried, that anything has been forgotten. Many of the old points of tension are still here, in large part because white people still don’t feel connected to the terrible acts of the past and are still waiting for those embarrassments to disappear from the collective consciousness. But no one’s going to forget. Which means, at some point, white people will have to give up the delusion that the playing field has magically leveled, and actually go through the difficult process of really figuring out what it means to be white, and what you want it to mean for you in the future. In that, it means accepting the fact that white is a race. That the long-existing privilege of distancing oneself from perceived “bad seeds” who are white is just that: a privilege. No one else gets that luxury, so as uncomfortable as that may be — learning how to live under the negative broad brushstroke of whiteness (and not “some” whiteness) — just never forget how long you’ve benefited from that even broader brushstroke of positivity.
Progress has long been measured in how different groups of people relinquished some comfort and learned how to exist around one another. But it’s deeper than that now; true progress is how everyone relinquishes some of those same comforts and learns how to deal with themselves. Of the many issues at play, one the biggest holding us all back is resentment. We live in a culture of finger-pointing, and both racial pride and racial identity have long surrounded not letting the other side win, or watching as the other side crashes and burns. When a black person screws up in a traditionally white setting (or vice versa), there’s a sense of validation in the distrust that kept the space so homogeneous for so long. Sometimes we’d rather be right at the detriment of our future than be proven wrong for a better tomorrow. It’s the shibboleth of race in the sense that we don’t fully know why we want the other side to falter so much, but that’s how it’s always been (at times, to everyone’s disservice), and that’s what keeps us comfortable, so that’s how it’s going to continue to be.
The only thing that’s changed, truly, is that nonwhites have more agency to blame back. But is that the victory? In some ways, yes; but in actuality, there’s really no winner in a stalemate. And that’s where we are right now: white people waiting for everyone else to stop complaining; everyone else waiting on white people to realize there are plenty of things worth complaining about. It’s a tug-of-war, and everybody’s pulling on that rope, but no one is going to win anytime soon. It’s tiring, but so far, no one’s giving up. But maybe one day we’ll all just let go of the rope at once and see what happens.
For the duration of January 2016, it was the foremost topic of conversation. Seemingly each day meant another story about white privilege in the news. Watching this happen is exciting, but also overwhelming in the way it is whenever a new idea is introduced to the mainstream. From DeRay Mckesson teaching Stephen Colbert about the concept on The Late Showto Mark Ruffalo considering a boycott of this year’s very white Academy Awards on the basis of said privilege, it’s seeping into most corners of society, and quickly. The chatter has continued into February, most notably around how brash black and white quarterbacks are judged differently, in both success and failure. White privilege even made its way into the presidential race, when Hillary Clinton was asked in a forum what white privilege means to her and how she’s benefited from it. Clinton’s response could be described as “a collection of words.” While long, her answer was not good; clearly caught off-guard, she told a rambling story about babysitting for migrant farmers that ran out the clock but didn’t really connect with the question she was asked. But there was something refreshingly honest and earnest in her attempt. It was like watching someone try to hit a home run, only to strike out after realizing mid-swing that they’ve never played baseball. But even a clean, highly mulled-over answer to a question like this — the right answer — wouldn't necessarily mean someone has actually dealt with her or his own privilege. Again, it’s nothing more than words.
In that moment, we got raw Hillary Clinton, someone who still has a long way to go in dealing with white privilege, just like the majority of white people — and the majority of privileged people in general. And even though her answer was messy, at least she avoided the three most common pitfalls in discussing one’s own white privilege: pretending it doesn’t exist, saying it only applies to “some” white people (i.e., not them), and trying too hard to convince other people that they “get it.”
It was Clinton’s answer that raced back into my head when I first heard the song “White Privilege II” by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, on January 20, two days before its official release. The almost-nine-minute track is the follow-up to his 2005 song “White Privilege,” but to call it a sequel would be an oversimplification — it’s like graduating from high school and then graduating from college. The song is filled with scenes, from Macklemore struggling to figure out his role as a protester, to Macklemore playing the role of his critics, to Macklemore playing the part of his fans, some of whom have misguided opinions on the world. A handful of people were sent early streams of the song by Macklemore’s reps. I don’t know everyone who got a stream, but none of the people I knew who did were white. It was clear what was happening. The day before the song was released, “White Privilege II” emails were beginning to be traded. So, what’d they ask you? Wait, they hit you up about that, too? No one seemed to be insulted or taken aback; it was just funny. It was so Team Macklemore. The anxiety over how the nonwhites would perceive the song was understood and valid, but still nothing short of adorable.
The night before the track’s release, I spoke with two people who were involved in making it. Both were black, and both were happy about the song’s existence; or at least I assumed as much based on management’s willingness to make them available for interviews. The first was Dustin Washington, a Seattle-based community organizer and anti-racism advocate who runs the People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond. Washington said he’d met Ben (as he called Macklemore) over a year ago, after one of his reps reached out to ask how the rapper could get involved. As a precondition, Washington required that Macklemore attend a training session, “Undoing Racism,” with members of Youth Undoing Institutional Racism, which he did. Washington explained that his role in “White Privilege II” was mostly that of an adviser, helping to hone the song’s message for maximum positive impact in the anti-racism space. Washington says he sees Macklemore “on a journey to see himself as an anti-racist white organizer.” Journey is the word that hit me, because that truly was the best way to describe what the song represents.
The second person I spoke with was Jamila Woods, a singer and poet best known for her dreamy vocals on Donnie Trumpet and the Social Experiment’s 2015 rap hymn “Sunday Candy.” Once she got past theWhitePrivilege2.com talking points, Woods explained what it was like to be in the studio with Macklemore and Lewis — going to Seattle having never met the duo, filled with the skepticism of anyone who has seen Macklemore stumble publicly on race issues. But her fears were allayed. Her suggestions were listened to, she says, and she never felt like her blackness was being used as a prop. Discussing her vocals near the end of the song, Woods says, “I was really inspired by Audre Lorde. We were constantly watching things, pulling up YouTube videos of different conversations, reading articles. The idea of hip-hop not being a luxury came from the Audre Lorde ‘Poetry Is Not a Luxury’ essay.”
When people are taking leaps out of their comfort zones like this, be they artists, politicians, or just individuals having those first conversations, you can tell when they haven’t sought feedback from the right people — the people most comfortable in the space that causes others the most anxiety. Part of that “journey” Washington mentioned is getting to a point where, by virtue of your inner circle, you can wisely get someone like Woods in the room when you’re taking a second stab at tackling white privilege — especially in a climate in which so many people are hoping that you do it poorly.
The day the song was released, the response came in three main forms: Some people attempted to engage with it as a think piece in song form; others wrote it off as garbage before even listening; and much of the internet focused on the most gossip-worthy kernel from the song, the Iggy Azaela “diss”:
You’ve exploited and stolen the music, the moment
The magic, the passion, the fashion, you toy with
The culture was never yours to make better
You’re Miley, you’re Elvis, you’re Iggy Azalea.
Azalea didn’t like it, and took to Twitter to say so. Macklemore defended himself to Rolling Stone: “It’s an unpacking moment of internalized criticism and self-doubt, and ‘What have I done,’ and letting the criticism infiltrate who I am. ’Why am I insecure at a protest?’ And I think that people get put into boxes, and the conversation around cultural appropriation — I was at the forefront of that, rightfully so. And that conversation also included Miley Cyrus and Iggy Azalea, and that’s why their names are on the record.” The uproar continued, though, and spilled over into a Twitter spat between Azalea and Talib Kweli (“Hip hop come from oppression and struggle that u don't experience,” he told her), and aTMZ interview with rapper Machine Gun Kelly (who is white and isn’t mentioned in “White Privilege II”) in which he said, “Race is not an issue. Race is an issue for people like Macklemore. I'm comfortable in my own skin. I can't help other people be the same way.” (He later backtracked on those comments.)
So much of what happened immediately following the song’s release shows the journey of the Macklemore critic. When Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’s The Heist was nominated for the 2014 Best Rap Album Grammy alongside Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.D city, Macklemore was on Black America’s Most Wanted List. The assumption was that while Kendrick absolutely should have won, he would probably lose — because America. In the back of many minds, we wanted Macklemore to lose — but we also wanted Macklemore to win, to further prove to any doubters that life still isn’t fair, and that white privilege is alive and well.
So when Macklemore did beat Kendrick, white privilege was the only plausible explanation, and even Macklemore knew it. Macklemore was gracious in his acceptance speech, but then he went a step too far by apologizing to Kendrick in a text message, and then Instagramming that text for all to see. When asked about it, Kendrick responded, “When he sent it to me, I was like, ‘Okay, I could see him feelin’ that type of way’ because he’s a good dude. But I think for confirmation from the world, he probably felt the need to put it out there. He didn’t need to do [that].”
In the wake of all this, black people were mad at Macklemore, but white people were embarrassed. For many black people, Macklemore was just another person benefiting from white privilege, and there was no need to waste energy singling him out. But for white people — especially ones who considered themselves racially awakened — he represented their worst nightmare. Because seemingly every time Macklemore does anything, and is inevitably criticized for it, he makes many nonwhites question whether white people who “get it” really exist. He pops up, and suddenly, white people who have carefully crafted that image of “I’m white — ugh, white people are the worst, right? — but trust me, I get it” are exposed. So of course some of Macklemore’s biggest critics are the white people often referred to as woke.
The sheer premise of woke is comical, since it most certainly is a myth: Once a white person has fulfilled the necessary requirements to prove a true understanding of their white privilege, they are anointed (typically by black consignees) woke. You are an elevated, “awakened” white person. The term is the evolutionary advancement of down, a once-popular way to describe a white person who understands, or is even well-versed in, certain aspects of black culture (see: Julia Stiles by the end of Save the Last Dance). While down implied the sheer knowledge of things, woke is almost this assumed, inherent understanding. One can get there in a variety of ways: a racially savvy conversation on Twitter (that certainly could have just been a private text message); a selfie of one wearing a James Baldwin T-shirt while reading Just Mercy on the train; a lengthy Facebook post about how mad one is about that thing on that day; or questioning the intentions of lesser “woke” white people. It’s funny because, in actuality, there are few better examples of white privilege than white people crafting their own perfect “woke” narrative and having it work. Or bringing nonwhite people quickly into their inner circle and using them as a stamp of authenticity. Or thinking they can defuse skepticism in their ability to grasp their own white privilege with one action — a song, a conversation, a speech, a tweet — and actually succeed.
Grasping privilege should be messy, because there’s nothing clean about reverse-engineering one’s entire racial understanding. The most important part of the process is the trial and error. But for the “woke” white person (not too different from the rise of the self-proclaimed male feminist), there are no public mistakes, no mishaps, no fumbles — you just suddenly “get it.” And while these flawless, highly curated “woke” narratives should raise huge red flags that say, “Wait, what’s really going on here?” instead they’ve been used to exemplify how to be a good white person in this white society.
For years, we’ve put Macklemore through a particularly tough ringer — one that at times might not have even been fair. But it’s a necessary ringer. Because it’s the process of applying responsible skepticism. It’s like we’re telling him, “You’re getting better, but come back next year, and let’s see what you’ve got,” like he’s Red from The Shawshank Redemption, making annual appearances before the white privilege parole board. It’s rarely graceful, but every time Macklemore does or says anything involving race or his whiteness and gets criticized for it, he goes away and comes back a little wiser. Is he there yet with “White Privilege II”? No. Does he need to be put on a pedestal for making this song? No. But is this song a net positive? Yes: for the head start it might give young white kids in figuring things out, and for Macklemore’s ongoing journey, and for being a warning about the snap judgments we make about other people’s understanding of their privilege.
***
Naturally, all of this leads to the question: What, in practice, is a white person actually supposed to do, and how are nonwhite people supposed to respond? So many of these moments, these conversations, these dialogues are important, are inspirational, and can make it feel like we’re headed in the right direction. But then what? If there were a simple answer, we might already have a better, more just society. But that’s not how it is, mainly because the way forward requires everyone to give something up if they want to gain something in the distant, uncertain future.
As a black man, I can attest that it feels good at times to have an enemy, a scapegoat, someone to point at when things don't seem to go our way, racially. In a perfect world, white people just get better on their own, without any changes in my behavior. But that's never going to happen, so we have to let white people be messy if it’s part of a necessary journey. No, this doesn’t mean coddling those who have no real desire for change, nor does it mean giving free passes for sheer ignorance, but it does mean allowing for imperfection. Public imperfection. Dealing with one’s privilege shouldn’t have to happen behind closed doors. Nonwhites have long bonded together over the assumption that white people will never “get it.” And as strong — and at times important — as that unified distrust can be, it's no longer worth the cost of low expectations producing even lower results. Having the green light to say whatever I want about white mistakes made in public, with whatever words, in whatever tone, with minimal hesitation is one of my true black privileges. It’s something nonwhite people do because it’s one of the few remaining privileges that makes our lives easier. But, as therapeutic as it can be, it’s something I know I have to gradually learn to let go of if I want things to improve.
As for whites, what needs to be given up is pride and comfort. White privilege is like global warming — it’s very real. With every passing year, the present continuously overwhelms, constantly ignoring the lessons from the past, in order to feel some degree of progress. But issues between whites and nonwhites in America from generations ago are too cyclical to pretend that anything has been buried, that anything has been forgotten. Many of the old points of tension are still here, in large part because white people still don’t feel connected to the terrible acts of the past and are still waiting for those embarrassments to disappear from the collective consciousness. But no one’s going to forget. Which means, at some point, white people will have to give up the delusion that the playing field has magically leveled, and actually go through the difficult process of really figuring out what it means to be white, and what you want it to mean for you in the future. In that, it means accepting the fact that white is a race. That the long-existing privilege of distancing oneself from perceived “bad seeds” who are white is just that: a privilege. No one else gets that luxury, so as uncomfortable as that may be — learning how to live under the negative broad brushstroke of whiteness (and not “some” whiteness) — just never forget how long you’ve benefited from that even broader brushstroke of positivity.
Progress has long been measured in how different groups of people relinquished some comfort and learned how to exist around one another. But it’s deeper than that now; true progress is how everyone relinquishes some of those same comforts and learns how to deal with themselves. Of the many issues at play, one the biggest holding us all back is resentment. We live in a culture of finger-pointing, and both racial pride and racial identity have long surrounded not letting the other side win, or watching as the other side crashes and burns. When a black person screws up in a traditionally white setting (or vice versa), there’s a sense of validation in the distrust that kept the space so homogeneous for so long. Sometimes we’d rather be right at the detriment of our future than be proven wrong for a better tomorrow. It’s the shibboleth of race in the sense that we don’t fully know why we want the other side to falter so much, but that’s how it’s always been (at times, to everyone’s disservice), and that’s what keeps us comfortable, so that’s how it’s going to continue to be.
The only thing that’s changed, truly, is that nonwhites have more agency to blame back. But is that the victory? In some ways, yes; but in actuality, there’s really no winner in a stalemate. And that’s where we are right now: white people waiting for everyone else to stop complaining; everyone else waiting on white people to realize there are plenty of things worth complaining about. It’s a tug-of-war, and everybody’s pulling on that rope, but no one is going to win anytime soon. It’s tiring, but so far, no one’s giving up. But maybe one day we’ll all just let go of the rope at once and see what happens.
One is no different than da other.