Being Schooled on Old School Hip Hop by a Youngsta

A few years back,
I really wanted to catch the Mavs playoff game.
So I strolled to a bar in Oak Cliff.

My nephew said he’d join me.
Oh yay. Company.

Young dude at the bar starts chatting me up.
Bopping his head, emphatically.
He’s feeling it.

I’m vibing too,
waiting for tip-off.

Then he starts going in.

On music.
On hip hop.
The 90s.

“That was the best,” he says.

“Yes, I agree. I loved it too.”

“Nah, man…
You don’t understand.
It was different.”

Oh really?

Tell me about it.
And he does.

He tells me
all about it.

I’m nodding, but inside,
I’m confused.

This kid…
has no idea, does he?

Finally, I cut in.

About 10 minutes deep.

“Hey, man. I was there.

I lived it.
The 80s. The 90s.
Backpacks. Walkman. Mixtapes.

The boom bap, the 808s.
The sound of the streets in my headphones.

I am hip hop.
But it’s tricky, right?
It’s bigger than hip hop.

I was outraged when Tupac and Outkast didn’t get 5 mics.
Jumped on the bus to grab the new Source Magazine downtown.
Drove to Hastings every Tuesday,
new releases, fresh lifelines to the outside world.
Bill’s Records for the b-sides and the rare joints.
Digging. Always digging.”

He kept talking.
Still didn’t get it.

Damn.

Just then, my nephew walks in.
Perfect timing.

And that —
was the day

I got schooled on old school hip hop
at a bar in Oak Cliff.
* Oh, Mavs lost.