I’m cool like this:
I read fashion magazines like they’re warning labels telling me what not to do.
When I was a kid, Arthur Fonzarelli seemed a garden-variety dork.
I got my own speed limit.
I come when I want to.
I maintain like an ice cube in the remote part of the freezer.
Cooler than a polar bear’s toenails.
Cooler than the other side of the pillow.
Cool like me.
Know this while understanding that I am in essence a humble guy.
I’m the kinda nigga who’s so cool that my neighbor bursts into hysterical tears whenever I ring her doorbell after dark. She is a new immigrant who has chosen to live with her two roommates in our majority-black Los Angeles neighborhood so that, I’m told, she can “learn about all American cultures.” But her real experience of us is limited to the space between her Honda and her front gate; thus, much of what she has to go on is the vibe of the surroundings and the images emanating from the television set that gives her living room a minty cathode glow. As such, I’m a cop-show menace and a shoe commercial demi-god–one of the rough boys from our ‘hood and the living, breathing embodiment of hip hop flava. And if I can’t fulfill the prevailing stereotype, the kids en route to the nearby high school can. The woman is scared in a cool world. She smiles as I pass her way in the light of day, unloading my groceries or shlepping my infant son up the stairs. But at night, when my face is visible through the window of her door lit only by the bulb that brightens the vestibule, I, at once familiar and threatening, am just too much.
Thus being cool has its drawbacks. With cool come assumptions and fears, expectations and intrigue. My neighbor wants to live near cool, but she’s not sure about cool walking past her door after dark. During the day, she sees a black man; at night what she sees in the shadow gliding across her patio is a nigga.
Once upon a time, little need existed for making the distinction between a nigga and a black–at least not in this country, the place where niggas were invented. We were just about all slaves, so we were all niggas. Then we became free on paper yet oppressed still. Today, with as many as a third of us a generation or two removed from living poor (depending on who’s counting), niggadom isn’t innate to every black child born. But with the poverty rate still hovering at around 30 percent, black people still got niggas in the family, even when they themselves aren’t niggas. Folks who don’t know niggas can watch them on TV, existing in worlds almost always removed from blacks. Grant Hill is black, Allen Iverson is a nigga. Oprah interviewing the celebrity du jour is a black woman; the woman being handcuffed on that reality TV show is a nigga.
The question of whether black people are cooler than white people is a dumb one, and one that I imagine a lot of people will find offensive. But we know what we’re talking about, right? We’re talking about style and spirit and the innovations that those things spawn. It’s on TV; it’s in the movies, sports and clothes and language and gestures and music.
See, black cool is cool as we know it. I could name names–Michael Jordan and Chris Rock and Me’shell Ndegeocello and Will Smith and bell hooks and Li’l Kim–but cool goes way back, much further than today’s superstars. Their antecedents go back past blaxploitation cinema, past Ike Turner to Muddy Waters, beyond even the old jazz players and blues singers whose names you’ll never know. Cool has a history and cool has a meaning. We all know cool when we see it, and now, more than at any other time in this country’s history, when mainstream America looks for cool we look to black culture. Countless new developments can be called great, nifty, even keen. But, cool? That’s a black thang, baby.
And I should know. My being cool is not a matter of subjectivity or season. Having lived as a nigga has made me cool. Let me explain. Cool was born when the first plantation nigga figured out how to make animal innards–massa’s garbage, hog maws and chitlins–taste good enough to eat. That inclination to make something out of nothing and then to make that something special articulated itself first in the work chants that slaves sang in the field and then in the hymns that rose out of their churches. It would later reveal itself in the music made from cast-off Civil War marching-band instruments (jazz); physical exercise turned to public spectacle (sports); and street life styling, from pimps’ silky handshakes to the corner crack dealer’s baggy pants.
Cool is all about trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents. It’s about living on the cusp, on the periphery, diving for scraps. Essential to cool is being outside looking in. Others–Indians, immigrants, women, gays–have been “othered,” but until the past 15 percent of America’s history, niggas in real terms have been treated by the country’s majority as, at best, subhuman and, at worst, an abomination. So in the days when they were still literally on the plantation they devised a coping strategy called cool, an elusive mellowing strategy designed to master time and space. Cool, the basic reason blacks remain in the American cultural mix, is an industry of style that everyone in the world can use. It’s finding the essential soul while being essentially lost. It’s the nigga metaphor. And the nigga metaphor is the genius of America.
Gradually over the course of this century, as there came to be a growing chasm of privilege between black people and niggas, the nature of cool began to shift. The romantic and now-popular image of the pasty Caucasian who hung out in a jazz club was one small subplot. Cool became a promise–the reward to any soul hardy enough to pierce the inner sanctum of black life and not only live to tell about it but also live to live for it. Slowly, various watered-down versions of this very specific strain of cool became the primary means of defining American cool. But it wasn’t until Elvis that cool was brought down from Olympus (or Memphis) to majority-white culture. Mass media did the rest. Next stop: high fives and chest bumps and “Go girl!”; Air Jordans and Tupac and low-riding pants.
White folks began to try to make the primary point of cool–recognition of the need to go with the flow–a part of their lives. But cool was only an avocational interest for them. It could never be the necessity it was for their colored co-occupants. Some worked harder at it than others. And as they came to understand coolness as being of almost elemental importance, they began obsessing on it, asking themselves, in a variety of clumsy, indirect ways: Are black people cooler than white people and, if so, why?
The answer is, of course, yes. And if you, the reader, had to ask some stupid shit like that, you’re probably white. It’s hard to imagine a black person even asking the question, and a nigga might not even know what you mean. Any nigga who’d ask that question certainly isn’t much of one; niggas invented the shit.
Humans put cool on a pedestal because life at large is a challenge, and in that challenge we’re trying to cram in as much as we can–as much fine loving, fat eating, dope sleeping, mellow walking, and substantive working as possible. We need spiritual assistance in the matter. That’s where cool comes in. At its core, cool is useful. Cool gave bass to 20th-century American culture, but I think that if the culture had needed more on the high end, cool would have given that, because cool closely resembles the human spirit. It’s about completing the task of living with enough spontaneity to splurge some of it on bystanders, to share with others working through their own travails a little of your bonus life. Cool is about turning desire into deed with a surplus of ease.
Some white people are cool in their own varied ways. I married a white girl who was cooler than she ever knew. And you can’t tell me Jim Jarmusch and Ron Athey and Delbert McClinton ain’t smooth.
There’s a gang of cool white folks, all of whom exist that way because they’ve found their essential selves amid the abundant and ultimately numbing media replications of the coolness vibe and the richness of real life. And there’s a whole slew more of them ready to sign up if you tell ’em where. But your average wigger in the rap section of Sam Goody ain’t gone nowhere; she or he hasn’t necessarily learned shit about the depth and breadth of cool, about making a dollar out of 15 cents. The problem with mainstream American culture, the reason why irony’s been elevated to raison d’être status and neurosis increasingly gets fetishized, is its twisted approach to cool. Most think cool is something you can put on and take off at will (like a strap-on goatee). They think it’s some shit you go shopping for. And that taints cool, giving the mutant thing it becomes a deservedly bad name. Such strains aren’t even cool anymore, but an evil ersatz-cool, one that fights real cool at every turn. Advertising agencies, record-company artist-development departments, and over-art-directed bars are where ersatz-cool dwells. What passes for cool to the white-guy passerby might be–is probably–just rote duplication without an ounce of inspiration.
The acceptance of clone cool by so many is what makes hip hop necessary. It’s what negates the hopelessness of the postmodern sensibility at its most cynical. The hard road of getting by on metaphorical chitlins kept the sons and daughters of Africa in touch with life’s essential physicality, more in touch with the world and what it takes to get over in it: People are moved, not convinced; things get done, they don’t just happen. Real life doesn’t allow for much fronting, as it were. And neither does hip hop. Hip hop allows for little deviation between who one is and what one can ultimately represent.
Rap–the most familiar, and therefore the most emblematic, example of hip hop expression–is about the power of conveying through speech the world beyond words. Language is placed on a par with sound and, ultimately, vibes. Huston Smith, a dope white guy, wrote: “Speech is alive–literally alive because speaking is the speaker. It’s not the whole of the speaker, but it is the speaker in one of his or her living modes. This shows speech to be alive by definition . . . It possesses in principle life’s qualities, for its very nature is to change, adapt, and invent. Indissolubly contextual, speaking adapts itself to speaker, listener, and situation alike. This gives it an immediacy, range, and versatility that is, well, miraculous.”
Which is why hip hop has become the most insidiously influential music of our time. Like rock, hip hop in its later years will have a legacy of renegade youth to look back upon fondly. But hip hop will insist that its early marginalization be recognized as an integral part of what it comes to be. When the day comes that grandmothers are rapping and beatboxing as they might aerobicize now, and samplers and turntables are as much an accepted part of leisure time as channel surfing, niggas will be glad. Their expression will have proven ascendant.
But that day’s not here yet. If white people were really cool with black cool, they’d put their stuff with our stuff more often to work shit out. I don’t mean shooting hoops together in the schoolyard as much as white cultural institutions like college radio, indie film, and must-see TV. Black cool is banished to music videos, sports channels, and UPN so whites can visit us whenever they want without having us live right next door in the media mix. Most of the time, white folks really don’t want to be part of black cool. They just like to see the boys do a jig every once in a while.
At the same time, everyday life in black America is not all Duke Ellington and Rakim Allah. Only a few black folks are responsible for cool. The rest copy and recycle. At the historical core of black lives in this country is a clear understanding that deviation from society’s assigned limitations results in punitive sanctions: lynching, hunger, homelessness. The fear of departing from the familiar is where the inclination to make chitlins becomes a downside. It’s where the shoeshine-boy reflex to grin and bear it was born. Black rebellion in America from slave days onward was never based on abstract, existentialist grounds. A bird in the hand, no matter how small, was damn near everything.
Today, when deviation from normalcy not only goes unpunished but is also damn near demanded to guarantee visibility in our fast-moving world, blacks remain woefully wedded to the bowed head and blinders. Instead of bowing to massa, they slavishly bow to trend and marketplace. And this creates a hemming-in of cool, an inability to control the cool one makes. By virtue of their status as undereducated bottom feeders, many niggas will never overcome this way of being. But, paradoxically, black people–who exist at a greater distance from cool than niggas–can and will. That’s the the perplexity of the cool impulse. As long as some black people have to live like niggas, cool, as contemporarily defined, will live on. As long as white people know what niggas are up to, cool will continue to exist, with all of its baggage passed on like, uh, luggage. The question “Are black people cooler than white people?” is not the important one. “How do I gain proximity to cool, and do I want it?” is much better. The real secret weapon of cool is that it’s about synthesis. Just about every important black cultural invention of this century has been about synthesizing elements previously considered antithetical. MLK merged Eastern thought and cotton-field religious faith into the civil rights movement. Chuck Berry merged blues and country music into rock ‘n’ roll. Michael Jordan incorporated the old school ball of Jerry West into his black game. Talk about making a dollar out of 15 cents.
Out in the netherworld of advertising, they tell us we’re all Tiger Woods. He plays the emblematic white man’s game as good as anyone. Well, only one nigga on this planet gets to be that motherfucker, but we all swing the same cool, to whatever distant ends. The coolness construct might tell us otherwise, but we’re all handed the same basic tools at birth; it’s up to us as individuals to work on our game. Some of us have sweet strokes, and some of us press too hard, but everybody who drops outta their mama has the same capacity to take a shot.
Donnell Alexander is a staff writer for L.A. Weekly. This story is adapted from a piece that originally appeared in Might (July/Aug. 1997). Part of Utne Reader cover story, November/December 1997.