Close to the Edge

by Sujatha Fernandes

  Pablo copied Fat Joe’s song for Julio on a cassette. Julio would listen to the poor-quality recording on his old beat-up Walkman over and over, every day. “I liked the beat, but I didn’t know what to do,” said Julio. “I didn’t know anything about flow, cadence, rhythm. I’d never studied music. Wow! How am I gonna do it? At the start it was all a joke. But every day I began to think about a vision of how I wanted to do the song. What was guiding me was the sound of the voices, the mixture of each, and the cadences. I started to rap over the top of this song, write my first lyrics. So when Fat Joe said, ‘Oh Boricuas, clap your hands,’ I started saying, ‘Todo el mundo con los manos arriba, negros, mulattos, blancos.’ That was the basis of my first rap, ‘Hip Hop Es Mi Cultura.’ It was an old-school rap, but it reached the people.”

  RCA tried out at the hip hop festival auditions later that year. The musicians faced a panel of three judges—a professor of visual arts, a professor of drama, and a poet who said that their lyrics were undeveloped, lacking in content, and violent. Julio was incensed. “Asere, you don’t know shit about rap,” he thought to himself. “You’ve never listened to rap in your life! How you gonna sit there and tell me what is rap?”

  But by 1999 RCA had not only passed the auditions—they were the stars of a festival that had included the famous African American artists Mos Def, Talib Kweli, DJ Hi-Tek, dead prez, and Common. The encounter was anticipated with much emotion and excitement by the Cubans. When dead prez rapped, “I’m an African, I’m an African,” in front of a crowd of thousands at the festival, the amphitheater resounded with the thundering response of the Cuban audience chanting back the words. It was Pan-Africanism in motion. But the politics didn’t always translate. Unaware of the implications of what he was about to do, the rapper M-1 pulled out a dollar bill on stage and began to burn it with a cigarette lighter, an act considered illegal and a defacement of property in the United States. “Because of this dollar, the children in my country are dying for crack or for drugs or for bling bling.” The audience went wild. How could he be burning a precious dollar bill? “Oye, no, gimme that dollar, I can buy some bread, or some french fries,” people in the audience cried out. Then he began to burn a ten-dollar bill. “Nooooo! Stop!” screamed the audience. “What is that crazy fucker doing? I could feed my whole family for a month with that.” One member of the American delegation, Raquel Rivera, was translating, explaining to the baffled audience that in America black people are dying because of the dollar bill. “But here in Cuba,” shouted one person, half-seriously, “people are dying of hunger.”

  Then, inexplicably, during the performance of the pioneer American rapper Mos Def, people started leaving the stadium. “Reyes de la Calle are better than Mos Def,” said some kids on their way out. “We can’t understand anything he says.”

  The Latino-American-Cuban connection was somewhat tenuous when subjected to the very real differences of language, culture, and history. First, Alamar was not the South Bronx. Black Cuban youth did have access to higher education—Julio had finished his degree in civil construction—even if that education didn’t necessarily lead to jobs. They did not live in communities ravaged by crack or other drugs, and bling bling was a remote concept, given Cuba’s endemic scarcities.

  Second, the black militancy of the American rappers was not comparable to the racial consciousness of Cuban rappers. Black Cuban identity—always expressed within the boundaries of an anticolonial nationalism—was not equivalent to American blackness, shaped through the fiery battles about slavery, desegregation, and civil rights. Cubans didn’t have a civil rights movement that brought a discussion of race out into the open. The black-white dichotomy of American race relations did not exist in Cuba. While in much of America even “one drop” of black blood socially categorized a person as black, Cubans had a much broader spectrum of racial classifications—from the darker-skinned prietos, morenos, and negros to the mixed-race pardos and mulatos. The militant stance of American rappers, particularly their language of racial justice, appealed to the Cubans. But the categories of American racial politics established by Jim Crow laws in the early twentieth century could not be superimposed on a culture in which racial identity was not so clearly spelled out.

  Like me, the Black August rappers had come seeking to make connections with Cuban rappers as part of the hip hop universe. But the possibility of marginalized people around the world uniting in a hip hop fellowship was starting to seem increasingly like fantasy; the black planet was more the wishful thinking of a handful of intellectuals and socially conscious rappers than a reality. Were we guilty of what the hip hop scholar Imani Perry has called a “romantic Afro-Atlanticism” that ignores the deeply conflicted interactions between people of African descent in the “New World”?3 The idea of a shared aesthetic culture that travels between diasporic communities didn’t take into account the deep residues that national belonging left behind.

  As the century drew to a close, American rap was no longer the epicenter of hip hop for Cubans. Cuban rap was starting to take on its own voice, to develop its own stars and pioneers. RCA closed the 1999 festival, receiving as much applause, if not more, than the American artists. “This was a defining moment for us as a movement,” recalled Julio. “Despite the fact that they were rappers from the US, from the mecca of the world—New York— they weren’t better than us. We were rapping and expressing our own realities to our own people.”

  The annual hip hop festival in Alamar was started in June 1995 by an association of rappers known as Grupo Uno. The rappers worked on a shoestring budget to make the concerts happen, sometimes without electricity, dependent on an ailing sound system or resources donated by friends and neighbors. By the time of the 1999 festival, the Cuban state had become more involved. It provided a professional sound system, transportation to and from the events, and even food for rehearsals. And after the 2000 festival, the state disbanded Grupo Uno and entrusted the Youth League with the organization of the festivals. The absorption of hip hop into the state was underway.

  At the same time the state itself was evolving in response to pressures from citizens. The appointment of the long-haired poet Abel Prieto as minister of culture was a reflection of the changes taking place in the cultural sphere. In July 2001 Prieto met with rappers to talk about forming a rap agency. After the meeting he pledged his support to Cuban rap as a movement that profoundly reflects “the theme of racial discrimination” and “highlights the dramas of marginalized barrios.” It was the first time an official had talked publicly about race and marginality. And with this newfound legitimacy, rappers began to play more of a role in organizing their festival. Rather than having music professors sitting as judges on the panels, by the 2001 festival it was the rappers themselves who were adjudicating.

  “I represent my ancestors, my African roots,” rapped a white Cuban guy with light brown hair.4 He formed the group Los Padrinos with a black Cuban guy. They were trying out at the hip hop festival auditions. I looked over at the panel of five judges: Magia, Alexey, Pablo, Ariel, and Yosmel, a rapper from the group Anonimo Consejo. But there was not even the shadow of a smirk on their faces. Either they were maintaining a professional demeanor in keeping with their task, or, more likely, they were unfazed by a white rapper’s paying homage to his African ancestry. Cuban national identity was promoted by postindependence intellectuals as a composite of African and Spanish cultures. It was not seen as odd for a white rapper to claim his African roots because these were the shared roots of the nation and not only of black Cubans.

  “Gracias.” Magia nodded at the duo when they finished their audition. Then each judge turned to jot down notes on a piece of paper with three categories: flow, lyrics, and projection. These were the criteria that were being used to judge the rappers. Magia had explained to me earlier that of the two hundred or so groups trying out in auditions across the country, seventeen would be selected from Havana and three from the provinces. Seven other groups, which were official
ly employed in state music agencies—these included Obsesión, Instinto, and Anónimo Consejo—were also in the festival lineup, along with five foreign groups.

  I spotted my friend Lily. Lily had recently found a small one-room apartment in Cotorro, a distant suburb of Havana by the main highway. Randy still spent most of his time in the barrio of Almendares, where his grandparents lived. Lily was at every one of Randy’s shows and had now come to support him at his audition. She was listening and learning about the rap that he was so passionate about.

  Randy and El Huevo were up next. After being rejected during the 2000 festival auditions, Randy had gone away and worked hard at his craft, practicing every day. He sauntered onto the stage, winking at his mother. He was confident. He was lyrically in good shape. His friends were now on the panel of judges. They knew his skills. I crossed my fingers for him.

  “Nearly all of my friends in jail / My barrio full of the mothers left behind,” he rapped. “Some jump into the sea, others go crazy, commit suicide Death is a phase of life I look for an exit and I don’t find it I’m at the center of a pack of hungry wolves In the bullshit of the streets.” Then they chanted on the chorus, “What will be, what will be, what will be / What will be of my life? What will be?”

  “I study, she works, I hardly see my mother,” Randy continued his rap. “I’m missing my father, I don’t know what will happen / For the last five years I’m the man of the house Those who know me accept me and those who don’t reject me Because the streets have become my second home.”

  At the end of their performance, the small crowd erupted into claps and cheers. His rap had spoken of the dramas of the marginalized barrios that the minister was talking about. But for the festival Randy and El Huevo’s rap would have to be more sanitized than this. I looked over at the blank faces of the judges and felt a pang for Randy. This was not the positive and educational rap that I felt Magia was probably looking for. But maybe there was a still a chance.

  A few auditions later the judges decided to wrap for the day. There was still another day of auditioning in Havana and then on to the provinces. Rappers anxiously waited to hear whether they had a coveted spot in the festival.

  He didn’t make it again.” Lily’s tone was bitter when she called to give me the news about Randy. “Two years in a row. Last year they were rejected, but at the festival they were called up onto the stage and people loved them. This year, well, you saw the crowd at the auditions. The crowd was really into their performance, but that doesn’t count for anything.”

  “What happened?” I probed, my heart sinking. “What reason did they give?”

  “I don’t know. Randy is not in an agency. He doesn’t have any connections. I know it’s a form of censorship, too. His lyrics are too fuerte. He doesn’t understand. He says to me, ‘Mama, groups that are not as good as us, who don’t perform as regularly as us, were accepted for the festival this year, but not us.’”

  “I’m sure he’ll get called on stage again this year,” I reassured her. “And people will eventually see that they are really doing great work.”

  “I don’t think so. What chance does he have of making it now? The rap festival is the ultimate recognition for your career. It’s the path to getting into an agency, getting a CD contract, and actually getting paid for shows. Randy has no desire to rap anymore.”

  “Tell him he shouldn’t be discouraged by this. It’s not a comment on the quality of his skills,” I reassured her. I really believed this. “He’ll find a way around the official path to success. He’ll find his own way.” But of this I wasn’t so sure. Randy already knew there wasn’t much place for him in the market, since he wasn’t willing to produce a danceable sound and party lyrics. But he also felt rejected by the underground, for being too underground. This was different from Julio’s experiences with the panel of professors, as the judges now were peers and equals. But if these judges wanted to hang on to their festival, they had to make sure that the groups they selected stayed within the boundaries of what was permissible.

  For those who had the honor of performing in the annual hip hop festival, there was the ritual of securing the coveted backstage pass for artists or a press pass. At the Alamar amphitheater there wasn’t much of a backstage to speak of—just a narrow corridor where rappers huddled before entering the stage. The entrance fee was nominal. But more than the free entry, it was the thrill of having the blue-and-white pass enclosed in a plastic case on a string around your neck. It conferred an aura of celebrity, a sense of importance and urgency, even if all you were doing was walking back and forth along the bleachers, trying to score weed or buy peanuts.

  I wasn’t really expecting to get a press pass for the August festival. The pass was mostly issued to foreign journalists, filmmakers, and select Cuban promoters. But after I spoke about Cuban hip hop on a panel at UNEAC a week before the festival, Tomás Fernández Robaina, a small and sprightly writer who was organizing the event, took my elbow and urged me to pick up my press pass on Friday at the Madriguera, a youth cultural center in Central Havana. Later that day I saw Ariel, who said that he had processed my pass and it would be waiting for me on Friday at 10 a.m. I felt smug in my newfound expectations of entering the ranks of plastic-bearing royalty. I should have realized that things in Cuba are never quite that easy.

  The other thing I should have known is that when Cubans say 10 a.m., they never mean 10 a.m. At 9:58 a.m. exactly I was standing outside the Madriguera. The small cottage and open-air performance space at the Madriguera, formerly the residence of the independence-era general Máximo Gómez, was tucked away at the back of a wildly overgrown botanical garden. To get to the cottage from the main entrance on Carlos Tercera, you had to wrestle your way through a jungle of quietly spreading creepers, cedar pines, citrus, and majagua trees, fending off mosquitoes and other small ankle-biting critters. When I arrived at the Madriguera that day, there was not a soul in sight and not a sound besides the distant chugs and groans of the camello buses from Carlos Tercera.

  Gradually, some kids in baseball caps and jeans began to drift in. An hour later Magia and Alexey showed up with some other rappers. They assumed positions on the benches outside, as if settling in for the long haul.

  “¿Que paso?” I didn’t understand what was happening. “They said 10 a.m. to pick up our passes, but it’s after 11 and no one is here.” As the words escaped my mouth, I realized the stupidity of them. Magia and Alexey exchanged looks of resignation.

  “Suyee,” sighed Magia, using the Cuban version of my nickname. “This is Cuba.” It was a phrase I was to hear time and again.

  By midday the Madriguera was humming with the excited chatter of rappers who were there to claim their backstage passes. I sat drumming my fingers on my canvas bag, checking my watch every five minutes, as if that would make the Youth League functionaries appear.

  “Pizza, anyone?” Around 1 p.m. Alexey had gotten hungry and picked up pizzas from the street vendor across the street to nourish us as we waited. Perhaps nourish is too strong a word, as the pizzas were lumpy mounds of dough saturated in oil and sprinkled with a pungent rubbery cheese on top. You had to hold the pizza off to the side and drain off the rivulets of oil before attempting to eat it.

  Finally, close to 2:30 p.m., Jorge and Arnaldo, two functionaries from the Youth League, sauntered in. They unlocked the cottage door. Once they had set themselves up inside, they began to call the names of rappers to come and collect their passes. One by one kids walked out with the precious plastic around their necks and grins on their faces.

  As I sat outside, I strained to hear my name being called. Getting more and more impatient, I finally went into the cottage. Magia and Alexey were sitting with Arnaldo in one of the rooms.

  “Look,” I said to Arnaldo, “I’ve been waiting here since 10 a.m., I was told my pass would be available then. It’s now after 3 p.m. Please, can you just give me my pass so that I can go home?”

  Arnaldo checked his list. “I don�
�t see your name,” he said. “Sorry,” he added, before turning back to a conversation.

  “Ahem,” I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you understand. Tomás Robaina and Ariel Fernández both told me I would be getting a press pass, and they said I should pick it up here, today at 10 a.m.”

  “Well,” Arnaldo repeated slowly, “your name is not on the list. There’s nothing I can do.”

  I looked over to Magia and Alexey. “Perhaps you should ask Ariel, maybe he has the pass for you,” offered Magia.

  “No, he doesn’t. Ariel told me to come and collect it here,” I insisted. “I waited here today for over five hours. You know that, you were with me. How can they tell me after all of this that they don’t have a press pass for me?”

  I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I decided to try another tactic. “What about an artist’s backstage pass? I’ll be performing with Magia and Alexey at the festival.” Magia had asked me to sing backup vocals for the “La llaman puta” song.

  Magia didn’t say anything. Arnaldo shrugged his shoulders. My eyes burned with tears, born not only of frustration but of humiliation and a sense of betrayal. Why wouldn’t Magia back me, argue my case with Arnaldo, question this ridiculous system? Rap was supposed to be antiestablishment. Around the globe rappers were speaking out against the powers-that-be. But I was starting to wonder whether Cuban rappers were so much a part of the system that they couldn’t or wouldn’t see its shortcomings. I hated myself for wanting the silly piece of plastic so badly.

  “You make people come here and wait for hours, and then you say my name is not even on the list?” I lashed out at Arnaldo. “You know, I’m writing about all of these experiences and the way that you treat people.” Bringing up my writing was a bad idea. “There are people back in America who support the Cuban revolution, but they don’t know about all of this bureaucracy that people have to go through.” Bringing up the enemigo del norte was an even worse idea. I was coming off as a self-righteous gringa, flaunting my foreigner credentials in a society where they were hardly going to win me support. I turned on my heel and walked out with a flourish, before Arnaldo could respond to my outburst.