You’re Not Your Fake Cornrows
Japan is in the middle of a hip-hop fad right now, which depresses me oh so much. “Why?” you ask, “Isn’t that a good thing?” You might think, but remember that the media coming into Japan is limited. So hip-hop is defined through MTV. Not only that, but now they’re trying really hard to be ghetto. No. Just… no. They’re like wiggers, only ten times worse. My friends and I dubbed them “jiggers” for lack of a better term.
I went to a hip-hop club with a friend a few weeks ago, and pretty much everyone there was dressed the exact same way. The guys wore NY Yankees caps, to the side, a sweater, a coat, some “bling-bling” for good measure, and big pants. The girls looked like tit-less, ass-less versions of Beyonce from one of her videos. It’s like they went to K-Mart, bought “Hip-Hop in a Can” for $9.99, popped it open, and “Voila! I’m ghetto now!” No you’re not! Another thing about this club was that no one really danced. They all swayed to the music. In neatly arraigned lines. While holding cigarettes. That’s Japan for you.
At one point the DJ screamed out, “Everybody say HO!” and everyone just stood there in confusion. As a music lover, but first and foremost as an English teacher, I had to fight the urge to rush up there, take the mic and yell, “It’s a command form! You’re supposed to do it!”
My bastard ninensei boys at the ghetto school are caught up in the hip-hop craze. They wear big sweaters over their uniforms, and wear their pants around their thighs to simulate bagginess. They think they’re the shit, but when I look at them I just see kids who don’t know how to wear pants. There’s one ichinensei boy who is a brat and idolizes these kids. He sits in class and stares at me or the teacher. If we try to give him work he swats it off his desk and laughs about how “cool” he is. One day I noticed something peculiar: his hair. Apparently, he wanted cornrows. Of course, he doesn’t have the hair for cornrows, so he just shaved lines in his head to represent cornrows. I laughed quite a bit at his expense. In case you’re thinking that’s a harsh, this kid is an absolute bastard so don’t lose too much sleep over him.
This past week, the worst ninesei boy came up to me and wanted to talk. Ordinarily, I would have been happy to talk to him, but this was in the middle of class. I told him to be quiet and go back to his seat, but he didn’t care. “Do you know Chingy? Chingy?” he asked anyway. He’s some rapper or something; my ex (that bitch) downloaded a song of his on my computer. “Yeah yeah, I know him, be quiet already,” I said. The boy was highly pleased with this. “Of course you know Chingy, you’re black!” Boy howdy, gimme some Chingy and some fried chicken, and I’ll be one happy negro! [*thumbs up*]
From that point forward, any time any one of the bad ninensei boys saw me they’d exclaim, “You know Chingy? Chingy! You know his song?” Sigh. Friday was a holiday, which was good. If I’d gone to school and heard “Chingy!” one more time, I think I seriously would’ve snapped and gone Tyler Durden on them. “You’re not black. Listening to hip-hop will not make you black. Wearing bling-bling will not make you black. Wearing your pants around your ankles will not make you black. You’re not your fucking MTV. You’re a 14 year old Japanese schoolboy, and nobody thinks this is cool.”
I don’t even like Chingy.