SHORT STORIES
I BELIEVE HER
Blasey’s Pastry Shop | September 27 | 1:52 pm
The little girl in the cobalt dress skipped into her favorite pastry shop. Her pigtails flew back and forth like the swings at the playground did. She smiled, missing her two front teeth, as she pressed her forehead against the glass case. Her breath condensed on the curved glass, which she wiped away in order to see her favorite chocolate eclairs resting inside.
“Stay right here, sweetie. I left my wallet in the car.” Her mother exited the pastry shop, which set off a little clink on the bell above the entrance door.
Behind her, an old man with round, blue, bifocal glasses dropped his coins into the colorful jukebox. Moments later, Cash began to sing about someone being his sunshine. Outside, the cars drove by peacefully and the sun grew stronger. But the girl was still glued to the eclairs.
A customer walked in and ordered a lemon meringue pie. The man behind the cash register nodded and went to grab him a fresh one. The customer followed him into the back. The little girl stayed against the glass case, unbothered by the fact that there was no one around her except the old Johnny Cash man.
“What’cha looking at o’er there little girl?” He called from behind her. Then, for the first time, did the little girl break her eye contact with the chocolate eclairs.
She turned to the old man. “Chocolate Eclairs. They’re my favorite.”
“Well would ya’ look a’ that!” The man chuckled as he approached the girl. “Those were my favorite back in th’ day too. Ya hear me? My favorite too!”
The little girl smiled and nodded.
“I remember th’ first time I laid my hands on one of them suckers. Twas my fifth birt-”
The old man’s story was interrupted by the swinging open of the front door. In came running a skinny figure, dressed in dark clothing, covering all but the eyes. He came fast and quietly, like a shadow, and headed directly towards the cash register. Before the old man or the little girl could comprehend what was happening, the skinny, dark figure had unlocked the small drawer full of bills.
“Hey! What’cha doin’ mister!” called the old man from just feet away. The dark figure jolted his head up, now aware of the presence of the man and girl. Immediately he darted in the direction of the door, cash in hand.
“Hey you! Come back ‘ere!” The old man ran after him, shoving him to the ground. The bills went flying everywhere as the old man grabbed at the figure’s dark red shirt. The old man fell at the threshold, his blue glasses sent flying out onto the pavement. The skinny, dark figure scrambled up to balance and charged out the door, leaving the money scattered across the pastry floor.
The customer and cashier now came sprinting out from the back, lemon meringue pie in hand.
“What in the lord’s name is goin’ on out ‘ere?” yelled the cashier dressed in the white and red apron. The little girl stood quietly, still in shock. The crumpled, green Washingtons and Lincolns flattened as the customer’s mahogany-red shoes stepped closer to the crime scene. The old man, still toppled down from the altercation, stood up hastily.
Before he could utter a word, the cashier began shouting.
“It was th’ old man! Look attam! Look attam lying in all those bucks!”
The old man stood up in defense. “Na! Naw, you see. Twas th’ other fellow! He-”
“You tryna steal from this shop mister? Is that right?” yelled the customer.
At this time ran in the little girl’s mother, followed by two cops. The mother ran directly to the little girl, grabbing her and hugging her and kissing her. She held her protectively as the cops grabbed the old man.
“Wus goin’ on in ‘ere boys?” asked the taller cop. “Someone care to explain?”
“This man right ‘ere sir. He tryna steal! He tryna rob this place!” yelled the customer.
“Yay that’s right! Take ‘im away! Lock ‘im up! Look attam!” yelled the cashier, still holding onto the pie.
“Al’righ! Al’righ! Er’body settle down!” shouted the shorter cop. “Les ask this young lady right ‘ere.” Everybody’s eyes turned toward the pigtailed girl in the cobalt dress.
“Tell us, girl. Whatcha see happen ‘ere?”
The girl paused.
“That old man didn’t do nothing. Twas the other man.”
“What other man? There ain’t no other man here!” called the cashier.
“He-he came in. Running. I seen him.” The little girl’s voice shook as she spoke the truth.
“You saw him running in the store?” the cop questioned.
“Naw, I ain’t see him run in. But I saw him take th-”
“If she ain’t seen him run in, she ain’t seen him at all! She lyin!” the cashier interrupted. The cop raised his hand to the cashier. He quieted. The little girl continued, louder this time.
“I saw the man. I remember.” she said.
“I don’ know. Are you sure miss?” the cop asked.
“I’m sure! One hundred percent! I seen him!” the girl’s voice now had slight frustration in it. The cops kept the old man’s arms held behind him, as if to handcuff him soon. The cops shifted their focus now to the cashier and the customer.
“What did y’all see happen?” the shorter cop inquired.
“We didn’t see it happen, sir. We was inside getting the pie.” The customer pointed to the lemon meringue pie.
“We ain’t seen it happen officer but we know it’s him! Look attam, he was fallen over with all those bucks around ‘im!” yelled the cashier. The cops looked at each other hesitantly, as if debating who was right.
“Are y’all really listening to this lil girl o’er here? That old man tryda rob me! Lock ‘im up already! C’mon now!” continued the angry cashier.
“Naw sir! They lyin’! I didn’t do nothing!” The man began to wrestle the cops grip.
“If we lyin, why can’t this lil girl remember the man walking in ta the store eh?” the customer remarked. The cops turned toward the little girl.
“He’s right. Why can’tcha remember lil girl? Unless you is lyin?” The shorter cop said snarkily.
“I’m telling the truth!” the girl cried. “We was- we was talking ‘bout those chocolate eclairs and-”
“Chocolate eclairs! Oh, for crying out loud lil girl! What you is sayin is that you didn’t see nothing!” The cops began.
“No I did!” The girl fought for her voice to be heard.
But, it wasn’t.
The old man was taken by the police and put in jail. As she was walking towards the car with her mother, she saw something off the corner of her eye. Across the street, in the pawn shop, entered a man. A skinny figure, in dark clothes.
For this time, she did not say a word.
I believe Dr. Ford.
ELISE CHALAMET
There was something intriguing about the door. The flickering light from the nearby stairwell glinted off the left side of the brass doorknob. I ran my fingers across the nameplate outside the apartment door. The Chalamets. The words read in an elegant cursive style which I adored, though the slight off-centered placement irritated me.
If one had asked me just over two weeks ago, I would’ve said that last name belonged to my best friend. Elise Chalamet. What a beautiful name, what a beautiful girl. I had known her for years, one might even say we were tied at the hip.
I clearly recall the first time I had seen her. I was alone on the swingset, as usual, watching my feet dangle beneath me when I heard an unfamiliar shriek from across the playground. I looked up and saw, to my surprise, an unrecognizable face. Seven years young with pale frosted skin, there she stood. Her nose was so pointed, her hair so thin. But her eyes are what had struck me the most. I had seen olive, I had seen icy blues, but never this color. Not quite chocolate, yet not quite tangerine. No, her eyes were special. They were marmalade.
It was unusual for me to interact with other kids at that time. I wasn’t too fond of them. The girls never understood why I dressed in all black. The boys never understood why my hair was so short. I was just a shadow to the world. But it was as if Elise had shed a light on me. She never cared for my dark clothes or my short hair. She was just as peculiar as me. So I befriended this strange girl. And she became my best friend.
Until she betrayed me.
It was nearly fifteen days ago when I received the phone call from her. We made plans for that evening, the eight o’clock show at the local movie theater. I picked up the phone, delighted to hear my best friend’s voice. But I was not expecting in the slightest what I heard.
She said she would no longer be able to spend time with me. She said her brother had fallen terribly ill. She said she would have to look after him day and night. She said she was sorry. And then she hung up.
I had only heard of this brother of hers. I could barely remember his name. He hadn’t grown up with Elise, as her parents had sent him to boarding school from a young age. I had seen him a couple times, in her family photos that she had shown me from time to time. He looked just like her, peculiar and innocent. But none of that mattered. She had betrayed me to be with him.
My teeth tightened inside my jaw, my hand trembling as I lowered the phone. How could she do this to me? She was my best friend, my only friend. I thought about the words that had left her mouth over and over again. I will no longer be able to spend time with you. Those words spun up and down, bouncing off of the walls inside my head. I felt as though I was carrying the world’s weight on my chest.
I had felt this sensation once before. Back in the sixth grade when the new girl had transferred into our school. She would sit next to Elise, on the other side of course. She would borrow her pencils and give her the homework answers. She would try to steal my Elise away from me. There was nothing I wanted more than to throw her into the eleven-foot pool, fully aware of her inability to swim. Elise was only my friend, she belonged to me.
Once again, rage boiled, simmered inside me. My breaths grew so heavy that at one point, I felt myself drowning within my own noise. My mind was crowded with chaos. It was as though someone had released hungry, wild horses inside my head. They trampled my thoughts, clouded my vision.
This was not supposed to happen, this was never supposed to happen. I had to do something.
So there I stood, fifteen days later. The only thing that stood between us was the thin, wooden door to her apartment. I knew Elise was inside, I had been observing for days. What I was doing was right, it had to be done. There was no other option. She had deceived me, this is what she deserved.
I heard her faint, fragile voice inside the apartment, the once unusual voice which had now become so familiar. The rain pattered outside in a steady beat. This made it easier for me to focus. The last thing I needed was to get distracted. These last fifteen days of my life had been leading up to this moment, to this revenge.
She needed to know how I felt. It was unfortunate that this was the only way left. She gave me no other choice. I felt the sting of her deception deep in my eyes, behind my neck, at the tips of my fingers. It had been growing, infecting every cell inside my body until I was completely taken over. How could she do this to me?
I had thought to myself that night, maybe it was just a mistake on her part. Maybe it just slipped her mind that we were best friends.
Everybody makes mistakes. And so I sat there, waiting for an apology. I knew she would call back hastily, desperate for my forgiveness. She would tell me that she made an honest mistake and that she would meet me in the theater that evening, as planned. But there was no call.
When we first became friends, she put me up on a pedestal. She made me feel significant. Like I was a fine china teacup on display for the world to see, but only for her to touch. But then a raging storm came. I was knocked off my pedestal. I plummeted towards the bare ground and shattered into a million pieces.
And now, poor Elise Chalamet would have to get cut picking up my shards.
I sighed deeply and focused on the beat of raindrops outside again. I felt the light of the stairwell fall onto the left half of my face. This was it, it was time. It was time to do the right thing. And with one last breath, I pushed open the wooden door.
There laid my victim, sound asleep on the beige couch, just feet away from me. The thick, knit blanket rose and fell on their chest as the breaths grew deeper. I felt my fingertips burn in rage as they had fifteen days ago. Just the mere sight of the curled up body enraged me.
The rain echoed inside the apartment building. I watched two drops race down the window on the right wall. Her apartment was mostly empty space, aside from the couch and television across from it. I heard a whisper from an inside room and immediately determined that it was the sibling.
I took a step closer and watched intently, focusing my gaze on the sleeping body. The same pointed nose, the same thin brown hair, the same frosted face. It was all so familiar, it felt like a dream. Or perhaps, a nightmare.
I grew closer and closer to the body, calculating my every step. I kneeled down, just inches away from the pale face. Slowly and softly, I lifted the knit blanket off of the body and threw it onto the cold, hard floor.
And then, in the blink of an eye, I threw my hands down and fastened them tightly around the soft neck. The eyes shot open in fear. Bloodshot, panicking, wrestling to break free. I tightened my grip. How could she do this to me?
My mind flooded with thoughts, drowning me at once. The body kicked at the end of the sofa, grunting and gasping for air. The beat of rain outside, much louder now, surged within me. Clenching even harder, I dragged the body off the sofa and onto the dark wooden floor.
I locked my gaze with the gaze of the marmalade eyes. Vaguely familiar ones, but not the ones I had known my whole life. And then, with a final push, the marmalade eyes froze, as if the light switch inside them had been switched off. I released my grip, observing the peculiar body that lay on the floor of the Chalamet apartment.
I stood up in triumph, my job was complete. As I approached the threshold of the thin wooden door, I turned back one last time to take a look at the dead boy. I smiled.
Elise Chalamet would be able to spend time with me again.
NOT JUST A STORY
A small girl in a light blue dress trots happily as she enters her school doors. Children laugh and play as she stores away her Disney backpack in the open wooden cubbies. She was big now, she had a hook for her jacket and a shelf for her reading books.
Just yards away, in the middle school, a young boy struggles to carry his instrument in one hand, his lunchbox in another, and his three-ring binder in another. Sadly, he only had two arms.
On the other side of the football field, a group of teenage girls rush to their class twenty minutes early in hopes to study a little more for that second-period test.
The small girl rushes to into her fifth-grade classroom and takes a seat at her very own desk. She smiles because she knows all the answers to the questions on the board. Her friends lean over to her desk and show off their fuzzy pink and white toys.
The boy enters his lunch wave and finds a seat next to his friends. He flashes a grim smile over to his best friend as they compete to drink all of the water in their bottles. They can barely make out each other’s laughter over the noise of the cafeteria.
The group of girls lay their backpacks down in their history class and pull out their notebooks to start writing as fast as they can. Occasionally they look over at each other and talk with their eyes. A few of them draw spirals from the corners of the papers down to free their mind for a bit.
The girl jumps on the bus and goes home to her mother.
The boy stands in the pickup line and gets into his father’s car.
The girls walk home and their brothers unlock the door for them.
And this cycle repeats itself. Until it doesn’t anymore.
The small girl leans over to show her new fuzzy toy to her best friend as the hallways lights flicker off.
The boy places the bottle on his lips and begins to drink the water as teachers rush into the cafeteria with sheer panic on their faces.
The girls flip the page of their spiral notebooks as kids begin to scream in the hallways.
“We are going into a lockdown situation.” The familiar voice on the intercom said. They had heard that same line multiple times before, but this was different.
Every door was shut, every light switched off, every kid on the ground shoulder to shoulder with the kid next to them. The youngest ones had no idea what was going on, the middle ones scared, yet they couldn’t understand why, and the oldest ones were already crying, grasping their fingers within each other hoping and praying that everything would be alright.
The school that all the kids had laughed in, and ran in, and played in, was now silenced by the presence of one person.
The teachers quivered softly, their hearts racing at unfathomable speeds. They run their shaking hands up and down the backs of terrified kids.
“It’ll be alright, sweetie” they whisper out loud.
“Not me, not us, not today, not again” they whisper in their heads.
The kids tremble side by side as the footsteps of an unknown person bounce around the walls of their beloved school. They grow louder and louder and louder, the kid’s hearts beating out of their chests.
The little kids want to go home, the middle kids want to get out, and the oldest kids want to live.
Then, the solemn silence of their surroundings is broken with the noise they thought they would never hear. They had heard it a thousand times before, enough to recognize what it was.
But this was different.
This noise, followed by hundreds more, followed by screaming and crying, following by sirens and running and chaos. This noise, made kids say prayers faster than they had ever, made students crawl into closets for protection, made students pick up their cell phones and send one last text to their families and friends because they didn’t know if they would make it home.
And some of them didn’t.
The girl no longer jumps on the bus and gets home to her mother.
The boy no longer stands in the pickup line and gets into his father’s car.
The girls no longer walk home and wait for their brothers to unlock the door for them.
And unfortunately, this cycle also repeats itself.
This is dedicated to the seventeen children who lost their lives in Parkland. This is dedicated to twenty little children of Sandy Hook who had a whole life ahead of them. This is dedicated to the thirteen students who died at Columbine. And all the other innocent children who will never be forgotten.
It is high time that something is done to ensure the safety of children in schools. Some children cannot fathom what it is like to sit safely at a desk without the constant threat of being shot. We cannot sit idly and just wait for another school to send our prayers to. Something must be done.
This cycle of hatred and violence must be stopped.
ESSAYS
SHARBAT GULA: NOT YOUR AFGHAN GIRL
Her eyes. Wow. I had never seen eyes so green. A lot of people hadn’t. That’s precisely why she got the recognition she did. But wait, what was her name again? It didn’t matter. In that room, my freshman year photography class, her name didn’t matter. She was simply just “the Afghan Girl”. The only name that truly mattered was his: Steve McCurry.
In that class, we studied McCurry and his talent. We studied his art. His passion and dedication to his craft. Photography is one of the most well known and widely used ways of documenting the contemporary world. With the expansion of technology and media in modern society, almost every is a photographer. The constant need to capture and share moments with others has become increasingly prevalent in our world. Everyone knows that all pictures tell a story greater than themselves. So what was the story of the Afghan Girl?
Sharbat Gula. That is her name. The world may have reduced her to the Afghan girl with striking green eyes, but her identity, truth, and story exists with all of us today. The world famous photo of Ms. Gula was taken in 1984 in a border camp of Pakistan and Afghanistan. She was sitting in the corner of a classroom with several other young girls when her “incredible, intense eyes” caught McCurry’s attention (“Finding the Afghan Girl”). After proceeding to take multiple photographs of her, he left. In June of the following year, Ms. Gula’s face was on the cover of The National Geographic and made headlines everywhere. People all over the world were intrigued by the mysterious look on her face. They wanted to know what laid within her piercing eyes. It was foreign to many people, Ms. Gula’s presence in the picture. To the world, it was nothing greater than intrigue and admiration for a beautiful set of eyes. While at first this story, as many do, appears to be a heartwarming backstory to what later becomes the successful search for this enigmatic woman, much context is often disregarded, or simply unknown, when digesting this photograph’s story.
Ms. Gula was, and still is, a Muslim woman in the ethnic group known as Pashtuns. Tony Northrup, a well known American photographer and author, emphasizes the importance of addressing Gula’s ethnicity and religion as “it is not welcome for a girl of traditional Pashtun culture to reveal her face, share space, make eye contact and be photographed by a man who does not belong to her family” (Ribhu). The importance of this statement lies within the word “culture”. Culture is, and will continue to be, one of the most disputed forms of context for any issue in the modern world. While a large part of this dispute stems from utter ignorance and intolerance of ideas outside one’s own, a small part of it is also simply a lack of knowledge. Though the belief system explained by Northrup is often portrayed in the Western world as being “conservative” and “oppressive”, it is considered a form of modesty and respect in many cultures around the world. In Islamic cultures, such as the one Ms. Gula belongs to, a woman’s modesty is highly sacred and to be respected at all costs. This is where religion and culture begin to overlap as various cultures within one religion may interpret texts in different ways. Nonetheless, all interpretations are valid and should be respected as faith is a concept that is of utmost importance to many people. Keeping this in mind, one can understand how and why McCurry not only photographing, but also publishing, Gula’s full face was incredibly disrespectful and exploitive.
Ms. Gula was only twelve years old when McCurry took the photo of her at the Nasir Bagh camp. She was just a child and attempted to preserve her culture by covering her face with her red scarf. That was when McCurry urged her teacher to get Gula to cooperate and “uncover her face” (Ribhu). The use of authority figures here is the first sign of a power imbalance. As Gula was merely a child, employing someone of a greater status to ultimately get what he wanted was, perhaps subconscious, yet clear still example of power play. This disrespect, exploitation, ignorance, and violation is what was truly buried in Gula’s striking green eyes. The decision to value art and intrigue over respect for culture is what is was shown in Gula’s mysterious look. It was not “the fear of war” in her eyes, as the originally published 1985 caption had stated it was. It was, in Gula’s own words, nervousness and sadness (Ribhu). So, fear? Yes, but not of war. Possibly of McCurry in the moment. But more likely of outsiders, such as McCurry, and the harmful ignorance they possess.
To many, the recognition Gula received after her publication on the The National Geographic is something to be grateful for. Society would view what Gula received as “fame” instead of disrespect. At first glance, it is recognition that many would say they desire as well. However, it is incredibly easy, and tone deaf, for people in countries such as the United States to call Gula “iconic” and romanticize her persona, as Carrie Regan, the Associate Producer in the explore team that searched for Gula, does in the 2010 NatGeo interview entitled “Finding the Afghan Girl”. To make Gula a symbol of something that she never wanted in the first place represents the way media and consumers care more for themselves than others. By calling Gula an icon, Regan, and society as whole to be completely honest, puts her on a pedestal that suppresses all of Gula’s struggles before and after the publication of the photo.
Of the many described reactions to Ms.Gula’s photograph, two of the most notable ones are those of intrigue and pity. Intrigue is an idea that, at first, does not seem as harmful as it truly is. Perhaps it is not so much the intrigue itself as it is the ignorance that comes with it. Often times people mistake the lack of care for other cultures as being “fascinated” or “intrigued”. This creates a lens that allows people of a particular mindset to look down upon those they find “intriguing” and perhaps unknowingly romanticize and dehumanize them. Pity, the second reaction, is a more common one today. Pity also stems from ignorance as well as an egocentric view of the world. When people who believe that their life is the ideal, or even the “normal”, then indications of life outside of their bubble seems pitiful. Intrigue and pity are both harmful as they encourage sentiments over proper education. The combination of both of these is what seemingly led McCurry in his decision to search for Ms. Gula. The reemerging curiosity behind “who she was” and “how people could help” following the tragedy of 9/11 is what McCurry claimed made him think “it was worth trying to locate her” (“Finding the Afghan Girl”). The use of the word “worth” is once again indicative of McCurry’s authority, at least in his mind, over Gula. In stating that only after a nation, and world, wide tragedy that “suddenly [brought] Afghanistan back in the news” McCurry considered finding Gula’s identity worthwhile, his concern for popular demand over Gula’s wellbeing is once again displayed.
Aside from the lack of regard in McCurry’s speech, it is truly the exoticism and white savior complex illustrated within the interview that represents the consistent disconnect between the Eastern and Western worlds. The way in which Gula is referred to in the video, as the Afghan girl that needed to be “found”, felt like she was being reduced from a human being to simply a mystery puzzle (“Finding the Afghan Girl”). Time and time again, the world sees Eastern regions such as the Middle East, South Asia, and Africa portrayed in an exotically distant lens through the perspective of the Western world. The people, their cultures, and their ways of living are consistently belittled and misrepresented in media. They are shown as people who need saving and this often translates to Westerners, such as McCurry, taking on that role as a savior. In the interview, the focus on dramatic music and the visible tension on McCurry’s face when describing the process of looking for Gula shows this very phenomena. The audience is inclined to commend McCurry after seeing all the stress he endured while never once being exposed to the hardships Gula faced and continued to face. Instead of taking time to educate viewers on Gula’s identity, NatGeo decides to further exploit her by turning her search into some great hunt.
Granted, this hunt is what publicly gave Gula her name, however that does not eradicate all the harm she was caused. While McCurry was profiting both monetarily and reputation wise following his publication, Gula was serving jail time in Pakistan on “charges of fraudulent identity” which eventually led to her deportation to Afghanistan. In Gula’s perspective, the most important yet overlooked perspective in this story, McCurry’s picture “created more problems than benefits” in her life (Ribhu). In addition to her arrest, Gula will forever have to live with the fact that her face was seen by strangers, specifically men, all over the world and that all of it was done against her will. Despite this being Gula’s mindset, people continue to applaud McCurry. This is of no fault of their own, however. Being a part of the masses, while it does not alleviate individual’s responsibility from doing their own research, it does make understandable why issues, such as this one, are so easily overlooked. When people everywhere are admiring a picture on cover of the magazine, it would not cross many’s minds to research the backstory of the girl they are looking at. This is why it important for authority figures, such as The National Geographic and Steve McCurry themselves to take accountability and share the truth. It is their responsibility to uplift Gula’s perspective to the rest of the world as they were the ones who fabricated it in the first place. Now that they have forcibly put someone into an international spotlight, it is only fair that they tell her truth. The truth that she “sought refuge in Pakistan” and always considered it her home despite the title she was given as the “Afghan Girl”. The truth that she lost a child and her husband to illness before getting deported due to her arrest (Djudjic). These are the truths that should be told but instead society has people recreating her picture under the name of a Halloween costume.
As if this in itself wasn’t enough, the man who exploited her for “art” is being praised daily not only for his talent, but also his kind heart as propagated in the interview. Both Regan and McCurry detail the way they helped, the money they raised and the funding they gave to build schools for girls in Afghanistan (“Finding the Afghan Girl”). There is no doubt that these donations are helpful and potentially a step in the right direction, however it must be noted that no amount of money can compensate for the disrespect and harm Ms. Gula faced. Money does not change the fact that kids are still being taught to idolize McCurry and praise his photograph. Money does not change the fact that prints of her photograph are still being sold for thousands and thousands of dollars. Money does not change the fact that because of McCurry’s success, now potentially hundreds of new photographers and photo students think his actions were excusable in the name of “art”. Money does not give her a name. She will forever only be known as the Afghan Girl. But she is not just the Afghan Girl. She is Sharbat Gula and her name matters.
THE QUEEN'S EMPIRE: A CASE STUDY ON NICKI MINAJ
Rap is arguably one of the most widely listened to and adored genres of music, especially in the younger generations of our modern society.
With legends such as Tupac and Notorious B.I.G, followed by Jay-Z and Kanye West, the newer age of rap has evolved heavily since it first began. The early 2000s of rap introduced an unprecedented wave of artists such as Lil Wayne, Drake, and most importantly, Nicki Minaj.
Rap was, and continues to be, a predominantly male industry, which thus manifests in many of the lyrics and ideas discussed within rap songs. Almost becoming synonymous with rap as a genre, topics such as money, fame, struggles, love, women, and sex, from a male perspective, are often found embedded within the most well known rap albums. This facilitated rap as an inherently male genre as it equated such topics to strength and masculinity. That being said, one can imagine the culture shock experienced when a woman such as Nicki Minaj entered the rap game discussing all of the same issues, but from a female’s perspective.
Although women rappers such as Lil Kim entered the rap game earlier, the level of fame, as well as the speed at which Minaj rose, was unprecedented for any woman at the time. Born in Trinidad and Tobago, and raised in Queens, New York, Minaj began writing and rapping from the extremely young age of 12. Minaj wrote and released her debut album entitled “Pink Friday” in 2010, which topped billboard charts. The release of this album, as well as the singles released alongside it, ignited Minaj’s career, thus unlocking an entirely new sphere of conversation for the upcoming years in the music industry.
Minaj’s lyrics were often deemed “inappropriate” as she would rap about women’s bodies in a more sexual manner than the industry was used to. Furthermore, Minaj became known as someone who drew “extra attention to the parts of her body most associated with hyperfemininity (hair, eyelashes, eyes) and hypersexuality (breasts, buttocks, legs) ” in her music videos thus causing them to receive great traction on the internet (Hunter). Though Minaj was simply doing the equivalent to her male counterparts, she was labeled “provocative” and heavily belittled throughout her career. Instead of focusing on the quality of her raps, and her effortless rhythm and flow, people have repeatedly chosen to degrade her name and minimize her accomplishments to merely her body.
This is the female struggle for women artists in most, if not all, industries. Not only do women have to “go through more hurdles to get where [they] are”, as Minaj said, they also have to fight for their respect once they’ve become successful (Nicki). Granted, success is always arguable, however, it is safe to say that as the most awarded female rapper in history, Minaj has most certainly obtained success. The question lies, however, in how long it will take for said success to be reflected in the way in which those around her in the industry treat her.
In a 2018 interview with Funk Flex, a well known disc jockey, rapper, and producer, Minaj gets heated as she tries explaining the double standard she faces in the rap industry. She mentions how rapper Safaree, whom she used to be romantically involved with, lied to the media post breakup about writing lyrics for her while they were together. Minaj has always been an artist that prides herself on writing every single one of her raps and therefore her anger with this situation is completely justified, especially considering that years later Safaree confessed. She explains to Flex that
“if [he hadn’t] heard reference tracks from Drake, [he] wouldn’t have ever believed” that Drake had assistance in writing his songs and that simply “because [she] is a woman, [he] believed it” without any proof (HOT97NY). Though Flex, and many other men, refuse to admit that this double standard exists, as that would mean that they are acknowledging the privilege they have in the industry, it continues to reappear despite Minaj’s success.
Following the 2018 release of her latest studio album, Queen, Minaj went on several people’s podcasts and shows to discuss her craft. One of the most viral interviews she did at this time was the 2019 Joe Budden Podcast. Budden, having known Minaj for years, had a long, complicated
history with her, yet claimed to have set that all aside to bring her on to discuss her artistry on Queen. Surprisingly, or arguably not, the bulk
of the questions presented to Minaj had little to do with her actual talent, and rather past scandals with her name involved. As if bringing up these discussions wasn’t already representative of the inherent disparity between the treatment of male and female rappers, Budden and his co-hosts continuously spoke over Minaj and cracked jokes while she was expressing her feelings, and trying to defend herself, in regards to the issues he brought up (Budden). This phenomenon, often referred to as gaslighting, is widely recognized now more than ever before. In bringing an icon such as Nicki Minaj onto his show, and then doing nothing but mocking and invalidating her the entirety of the interview, Budden displays the exact behavior he swears Minaj no longer had to deal with due to her fame.
So why is this the case? Why has fame not solved these issues for Minaj? Simply put, it is because it can’t. The inequality women face, whether that may be being degraded, being lied about, or even just laughed at, is not an issue of fame, rather an issue of respect, and lack thereof. Until her male counterparts, and men in general, learn to respect the women that co-exist in their spheres of influence, this disparity will persist. As evidenced by Flex and Budden, the reason as to why this issue is never properly addressed is because many of the men perpetuating the problem deny its very existence in the first place. Granted, it may be difficult to identify it when one is on the inside, however, it is not only Minaj who has overtly spoken on this issue.
Even if one were to dismiss Nicki herself, they cannot overlook the thousands and thousands of comments beneath Budden’s video defending her and calling him out, as well as his co-hosts, for disrespecting Minaj throughout the interview. One of the top comments, with over four thousand likes, even argues that they would not have been making jokes “if this was Jay Z talking”, further emphasizing the disparity of respect in the
industry (Budden).
This direct comparison, however, invites a new range of argument, as seen in the video’s comment section. Oftentimes, when specific male artists are brought up in opposition to Minaj, their fans begin to critique her behavior, claiming that the way she talks, acts, and presents herself, is what leads her to be disrespected. Not only is this accusation inherently problematic, as no artist deserves to be torn down the way Minaj has been, but it is also incredibly sexist and tone deaf. Male artists such as Kanye West and Tyler the Creator have created their entire brands around their arrogance and fans do nothing but praise them for it yet when a woman does it, she is called names and insulted. And while some may think that Minaj’s outspoken personality is what leads her to be the target of such criticism and disrespect, this is not the case. Minaj is not the only female rapper who has been put through such incivility.
In July of 2020, new age rapper Megan Thee Stallion’s name was flooding the internet after Tory Lanez, a well-known male rapper, allegedly shot her in both legs. The response is not what one would expect from a shooting incident, however, knowing the manner in which women are treated in the industry, it was not shocking that Megan was being demonized. Fans, majority male, took to Twitter and other social media in defense of Tory, making disrespectful jokes about Megan, including her appearance, and claiming that she most likely deserved the bullets. They became so foul that Megan herself had to come onto Instagram live post surgery and dismiss the hatred being spread. She asked viewers, addressing the men that had been mocking her situation, if they’d “still be cracking jokes if it was their sister or girlfriend” that got shot (Megan). Though Megan’s question was rhetorical, its implications still hold true to the assertion that men do not respect women in the industry.
But neither do we, so why would they? Though many people may think that they are not guilty of contributing to the rap double standard, they more than likely are. Minaj brought this to people’s awareness in an MTV interview in which she describes how she no longer wants to be referred to as a “female rapper” and instead, just a rapper. Furthering the conversation of respect, she explains that others “respect [her] so [she] should respect [herself] enough to see [herself] the way [other great rappers] see themselves” (Kritselis). This goes even further to show how deeply embedded the patriarchy is in our systems of society, even in something as little as vocabulary.
As people, we tend to set men as the default for specific roles and careers, such as rappers, without even realizing it. This is why the phrase “female rapper” exists and “male rapper” does not. Nicki Minaj may have entered the rap game as the first female rapper to make it to the top the way her male counterparts did, but by the time she retires, there will have been several other female rappers dominating the game in her footsteps. And by then, there will be no need to call them “female rappers”. As the world of rap continues to evolve and expand, hopefully there can finally be some room for respect in terms of women artists. Though the struggles, inequality, and disrespect that Minaj had to face, and continues to face even after her success, are frustrating, they allowed her to pave the way for new artists in the coming generations. She will go down in history as the Queen of Rap. And after all, every Queen has to fight her battles.