As in any other subculture, rap aficionados argue about which rapper has produced the most impressive output. Jay-Z has cited Nas, The Notorious B.I.G., and 2Pac as “greats”—and his career is often compared with theirs. The Notorious B.I.G. and 2Pac met untimely deaths in 1997, so comparisons are limited. But Nas’ “Illmatic” is considered one of the greatest hip-hop albums of all time. Few hip-hop fans believe any of Jay-Z’s albums are of the same caliber, yet Jay-Z has released a consistent stream of critically acclaimed albums—while Nas’ career hasn’t flourished.
As teachers, we cannot expect to perform perfectly for every period of every day of the school year: Such unrealistic hopes can lead only to utter disappointment and early burnout. Unfortunately, perfectionistic tendencies can often be intensified by the pressures of high-stakes accountability systems. That’s why we must gird ourselves for the long haul, developing mindsets, skills, and innovations that will enable us to sustain our careers.
One of my NYC teacher friends posited that I was popular. I laughed. Hard. The one thing to keep in mind, my people, is that I have a hard time talking about myself in depth. On the web, I’ve gotten gracious amounts of praise (all of which I’m humbled by) but in my district, I think I’ve also maintained a fair share of notoriety. I tend to listen a lot more than I speak, and I nod a lot until I find the best place and time to say something. She asked me to write about why it is that I laughed so hard at her question, but before I accepted that offer, I replied with this: What’s the realistic difference between infamy and popularity.
Simple. It’s about intention.
Whenever I enter a conversation, my intentions depend highly on the audience, what I know beforehand about the space I occupy with that audience, and how I can help move a conversation forward. There have been a couple of district professional development sessions where I had to say things that the district or network weren’t happy with. I’ve had the audaciousness at a national conference or two to suggest that teacher voice matters in any future context of building 21st century schools. I’ve walked into a few teacher-led meetings and openly questioned the lack of diversity in certain spaces. Usually, people who tacitly agree with me might give me an applause or talk to me in some backchannels later, but I also get the intense stares and “Can I talk to you for a minute” parts, too. Often enough, I’ve also gotten the “Vilson, did you say something?” when an e-mail comes out about how we as teachers dared to discuss our disagreements and prompted subsequent meetings cancelled.
Thus, it’s not popularity, but notoriety. I’m OK with that.
It also means that, when I’m vested in a project, people know I mean business. It also means people always need to re-read their pieces as if they’re reading it to me. It also means that when I say something positive or constructive, because I know how to find that balance, then it’s taken more seriously. It also means that I get to say a lot more “and” than “or.” For instance, I want students to achieve more and I want educators as a whole to get paid more. I want less middle men (and women) and more support and solutions coming from all levels of our educational system. I want us to openly discuss problems and also find ways and means for the people to engage others in a real discourse on present and future purpose for what we do.
It’s also why I’m squeamish at the idea of putting my main source of writing, for instance, under the auspices of any organization; whenever you’re commissioned to do something, you have to keep the organization that sponsors you in mind unless they specifically call for you to use that voice in the pieces you’re writing. Freedom isn’t free, but it’s not about the price; it’s about the value. I don’t walk into conversations tied down by any one entity, even though I know I’m getting paid for compliance to an understood standard of complacency.
That’s OK. As long as I get to poke at the boundaries a bunch, and possibly kick dust around the edges, I’m alright. Because I have my ambitions. How about you?
Jose, who celebrates what would have been 2Pac Shakur’s 40th birthday …
p.s. – :: whistling “I won’t deny it, I’m a straight ridah. You don’t wanna fuck with me …” ::
Recently, I was watching the movie 2Pac Resurrection, the posthumously narrated biographical film about the rapper Tupac Shakur. In one of the segments, 2Pac discusses his prison stint and the people who sent him letters and visited him during his time behind bars. One of those people, of course, was his mother, Afeni Shakur. Their relationship strained over the years, but his prison sentence forced the two back together. The irony, of course, is that they were once together in jail while Ms. Shakur was pregnant with 2Pac during her time as a Black Panther.
When I first heard the song, I couldn’t fully grasp their situation. I knew as much about 2Pac’s life as MTV would reveal. To the general media, he was a chart-topping, record-selling, reckless, Black thug with way too much money on his hands and too much celebrity. I didn’t know much about Dionne Warwick nor C. Dolores Tucker. I also didn’t know he was literally getting followed by the FBI and every law enforcement official within a 5-mile radius of his entourage.
But if there’s one thing I knew about 2Pac, and it’s the same thing every poor kid knew when they ran the “Dear Mama” tape, it’s that this man knew how to make a song. My friends and I would sit there not saying much while the record played, or the video came on, and tried to hold the emotions in. We’d weep while no one was looking, and tried to act tough in front of each other. Usually. 2Pac’s songs still pull people in because it doesn’t let people off the hook. Either you ride with him or you turn the tape off.
So it was with “Dear Mama.”
For a good portion of my life, the only people that my mom and I had were each other. When my stepfather came into our world, and eventually my younger brother, I still remember how much she struggled just to keep a hot plate on our table. She took odd jobs around town, including the factory job that eventually left her incapable of maintaining a full-time job. When that didn’t work out anymore, she took on parenting heroically, piecing together monies she saved up with income from my stepfather and other sources. We rarely if ever missed meals, and our clothes stayed clean. Out of circumstance, I only saw my father once a year on average, but my mother wouldn’t let me feel any sort of way about that.
The more I found out about my mom and the struggles she went through just to ensure I became the man I am today, the more I knew I had to become that, at whatever cost. I blamed myself often for my own shortcomings, and became frustrated with her. That’s what most sons in that situation, my friends included, felt in my predicament. We didn’t have our fathers there, and we kept trying to run away from our fathers’ images until we became lots like them. It’s our ultimate shortcoming, and often, the only way to reverse the anguish of not living up to a certain image is to reflect without the external influences, without the confusion, without the noise.
That’s what Tupac did for a lot of us, so we didn’t have to.
Last year, this song was added to the National Recording Registry. Wikipedia states that “The Library of Congress has called ‘Dear Mama’ ‘a moving and eloquent homage to both the murdered rapper’s own mother and all mothers struggling to maintain a family in the face of addiction, poverty and societal indifference.’” For those of us who felt like Pac did, we couldn’t agree more.
Jose, whose plan was to show you that I understand …
I had the pleasure and misfortune of running into videos my former students get involved with, and one of them featured a gang from one of the neighborhoods my school represents. I watched a bit of it, annoyed that these pseudo-gangsters would put their videos on YouTube (“Real gangsters move in silence …” – Biggie), […]
2Pac probably says everything that needs to be said in this video better than most intellectuals who engage in anacoluthia for the sake of just going above their readers’ heads rather than touching their hearts. Maybe a useful tactic for burgeoning anything is to only apologize when you mean it. Say sorry if you’re really […]
A few notes: 2Pac is a freakin’ legend. He’ll never truly rest in peace. He’ll always live on in the hearts and minds of those who were even so much as touched by his music. There, I said it. RIP means nothing for a man like that. The Acentos Workshop was really good. Can I […]
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My name is Jose Luis Vilson, math teacher, writer, public speaker, activist, and father. As a nationally recognized educator, my work has been used in books, magazines, syllabi, curricula, and other blogs from the elementary grades to colleges and universities, supporting new and veteran teachers, and speaking on issues of race, poverty, culture, technology, and education. I've been featured at CNN, The New York Times, Huffington Post, Education Week, Scholastic, TEDx, and GOOD Magazine. For more, click here.
My name is Jose Luis Vilson, math teacher, writer, public speaker, activist, and father. As a nationally recognized educator, my work has been used in books, magazines, syllabi, curricula, and other blogs from the elementary grades to colleges and universities, supporting new and veteran teachers, and speaking on issues of race, poverty, culture, technology, and education. I've been regularly featured at CNN, Huffington Post, Education Week, Scholastic, TEDx, and GOOD Magazine. For more, click here.