07-027
Take
That, Mr. Cleemann!
Having mastered the
works of one Dr. Seuss at a precocious age, it was clear that I would
be naturally gifted in the art of freestyle rap, should I ever choose to make
my debut in this art form. However, even with the force of this
overwhelming scientific evidence, my obstinate boyfriend Mr. Cleemann saw fit
to disagree when, over drinks, I attempted to impress him with my
talent.
He cited my lack of
experience listening to hip hop music and resulting ignorance about such
historical figures as Notorious B.I.G. and Tupac Shakur, implying that
this would somehow impede my virtuosity.
I countered this outrageous claim by showing him the official
university diploma for my Bachelor's degree in English, a course of study during
which I became intimately familiar with legendary rhymesters
like William Shakespeare, Alexander Pope, and Dorothy
Parker. In the heat of the argument that followed, he threw out
insults such as "yuppie," "over 30," and
"square," but was forced to capitulate when I immediately
freestyled that it didn't matter what he thought because I didn't care.
To back my
devastating victory with further empirical evidence, one summer evening I
shut down my computer, unbuttoned my pinstriped blazer, put my
blackberry on vibrate, and exited my office building to catch a
bus to the south Bronx for a lesson with a distinguished freestyle
master. My instructor was the leader of a NYC hip hop group that
performed nationally, and he graciously welcomed me into his home/recording
studio. The musky scent of authentic hip hop incense reminded me of
the vendors that line 125th Street in Harlem, a hip hop cultural center with
which I am well acquainted
due to the Thursday evening yoga class at the New York Sports Club
there.
He flashed me
a warm smile and played some beats on his mixboard as we began
our lesson with an impromptu collaborative freestyle rap. We
kept it positive, avoiding the negativity associated with some battles, like
the one at the start of the opera Cyrano de Bergerac in which Cyrano composes a
freestyle while sword-fighting against a ne'er-do-well. I've heard that a
fellow named Eminem also had some unsportsmanlike experiences in the
freestyle world; these were supposedly documented in a film, although my
boyfriend may have made that up in a sad attempt to sound more
authoritative about rap than I.
The stunned look on my
instructor's face when we concluded our freestyle confirmed my suspicions - I
have a gift. He concurred with my exuberant finding, I apologized for
elbowing him in the eye while joyfully flinging up my arms to shout
"take that, Mr. Cleemann!", and we determined that there
was no need to continue the lesson.
Hugely satisfied, I
proceeded home to inform my boyfriend that the argument I had won several
months previously now had even more definitive proof in my
favor: "in our fight, I was right!"