Make Love in My Car | Episode 5: A Hip-Hop Higher Education
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Make Love In My Car is a regular music column by Kendra Allen. The name of the column is a reference to the song “Make Out in My Car” by Moses Sumney. The slight change in meaning is intended to amplify the camaraderie, comedy, and closeness of riding in a car with a great playlist, whether alone or with someone else. In this episode, she remembers what it felt like to find writing through hip-hop while riding Chicago’s transit system her freshman year of college.
Picture me—the fall of 2013—I’m born—and raised—in the South—but never thought to refer to myself—as a Southerner—since it’s apparent—in the way I speak—apparent—in the way I dress—which is to say my style is very down-home—I mean, homely—and I’m not home—I’ve moved to Chicago—drove sixteen hours—a half room’s worth of shit in the back of a truck—my mama moves me—we leave at night—and all we do is listen to gospel—Fred Hammond cruising us along cornfields—my mama is fasting—again—from the world—I mean, from worldly things—Fred’s harmonies hammer us to our seats—we sing along with the choir—we background noise—we a whole chorus—my throat hurts—I climb in the back seat—fall asleep with my hometown behind me—my neck jammed by the time it’s my turn to drive—I get pulled over an hour later—for the first time ever—for speeding in the passing lane after passing—the cop comes to the window—and I turn down the J. Moss—who’s crooning about premarital sex—about the temptation of a beautiful woman threatening his Christianity—describes her as enticing—and a one-way ticket to a devil’s hell—which, at no point in the song does it ever imply that said woman—wants him at all—he literally just saw her and wrote—a short story—a fantasy of sorts—sometimes Christianity is very unserious— but the song is a bop—the beat clearly hip-hop inspired—clearly worldly—but maybe that’s the appeal—which I blame for making me accelerate—the irony—the cop asks me for my license and where it is I’m headed to—in such a hurry—I say school—we’re in Illinois—which is not a city at all—diners up and down the highway—the cop asks me where—looks in the back seat—at my mama—at all the stuff—I say Columbia—and he says oh, cool—what year are you—and I say first—I say, I’m starting—I don’t know the academic language—a freshman, Kendra—say you are a freshman—and again—it’s the fall—of 2013—which means Black kids are getting national attention for dying—for being killed, I mean—three months ago I graduated high school—no honors—and now I’m a college student—challenged into academia by a calculus teacher casually asking me if I planned on applying to Bikini Bottom University—I didn’t have plans—to apply to any college—but his comment made me search “art school”—after school—I applied to the first one I saw—on the spot—the acceptance rate ninety-five percent—because honestly who got the time—or money—to have options—the cop lets me go—with a warning—tells me to stay outta the fast lane—and good luck—it’s all so ominous—my future.
But no, really—picture me—walking two miles—to and from class—in the middle of my first Chicago winter—an allegedly groundbreaking winter—but they say this every single winter I’m there—classes are never cancelled—even in negative degree weather—so there I am—walking in the McFlurry—shoulders getting rocked—limbs pushed into walls—since I don’t know how to properly use the L yet—I always get on the cart heading the opposite way of where I need to be—and I’m too much—of a teacher’s pet to be late to my first day of big-girl classes—but this feeling passes—and quickly—it’s cold—but I’m rushing—to Hip Hop History—a class that don’t even sound real—but it is—and it’s in the music building—which is basically off campus—and I walk—lose so much weight in winter—just to work out again at night—I achieve the body I thought I wanted—but that’s another story—the bodies in my Hip Hop History class are all male identified—all very sure of themselves and what they know—and yes, a white man is the professor—and yes, he has us debate the validity of white rappers—and yes, he puts me on the side of yes—and yes, because I know how to make any argument—I win my round—I stand on the sound stage and say yes—Eminem is just as important to the genre—just as influential as any of his Black male counterparts—it ain’t a hard task for me—I’m very familiar with his catalog—I literally grew up on his stories of rage and violence—so there’s an emotional tie there—his impact on my own storytelling—even still—so although I’m exaggerating certain qualities about his art for a grade—I don’t gotta reach too far down the rabbit hole to provide examples to prove my point—it’s all technical—the stories—the lyricism and wordplay—the flow and delivery—the animation—the alter ego—all the core rap qualities that make listeners pay attention—him just being good at what he does—all the cosigning from other rappers—the album sales since we care about those kinds of things—how he washed Jay-Z on “Renegade”—things like that—granted—the person I debated against coulda won just as easily—could have said while yes—Eminem is regarded as one of the best to ever do it—him being white and his fans being even whiter—even angrier—even more violent—has a lot to do with that type of mega success—how timing had a lot to do with it—how white kids had been waiting for someone who looked like them to infiltrate the genre so they could look cooler—could claim it—when in reality—yes Eminem is one of a kind—but there’s millions of rappers who can do what he does—and better—except they don’t look like him—but my opponent refused to acknowledge that—I mean, he literally could’ve made the exact same points I did—seeing as how Eminem understands this himself—he says it in songs all the time—all the horrible shit he’s been able to spit and call it self-expression—and we cheered for the murders and domestic brawls and gave him Grammys—and a movie with an iconic freestyle battle scene—anyways both me and Eminem win—anyways I win—and the men are impressed by my ability to critique music because they weird like that—think the things they like are sex specific—so I spend the rest of the semester tryna reroute that—because being impressive wasn’t my intention—I was just speaking about something I love.
Picture me—figuring out the Red Line—using the traveling time to prepare for class—every week there’s a particular artist or album we’re discussing—but I been studying the way music makes me feel since music made me feel—yet rap became prominent due to my daddy—and due to me growing up in the era of the rap mixtape—my mama played rap in the car—sometimes—a lil Heavy D here and there—a lil Goodie Mob around the way—artists like that—and we both collected CDs—she had The Blueprint—and loved MC Lyte—and kept The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill in the tape deck of course—so my sensibilities were all over the place—but picture me—the time passing—and although the emotional ties certain lyrics created in me, stayed—I started to pay more attention to the way those words were being constructed—the way those stories were being built—the how more than the what—because they both matter—the way a rapper specifically—could take the base of somebody else’s idea—and recreate the formula—I’ve always been a lyric person—will, always be a lyric person—but rap lyrics are, different—and in some ways, I might even say, deeper—depending on the rapper—which is what I tell my Hip Hop History class—what I tell my new Chicago friends week to week—while we discuss the trajectory of this music—how we start with A Tribe Called Quest’s People’s Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm—and end up on Nicki Minaj’s “Monster” verse—how we sit in the auditorium—dispersed throughout like the first movie showing of the day—our laptops open—being big nerds about rap songs—listening—I remember it so vividly—the songs I grew up on—and I’m 18—and tryna figure out how—to write—my own stories—in a skillful way—I shuffle through thousands of them—I’m still a freshman—on my third major—something called—Creative Nonfiction—I still don’t know what it means—but I’m cruising—knowing what to say—but lacking the skill to say it—just listening to a lot of rap—as usual—there’s not too many stops between where I’m at and where I need to be—I walk to Harrison just to get off at Roosevelt—to walk—the rest of the way—I don’t mind the extra step—I’ve found a new rapper to listen to—I stumbled upon him—in route—but I knew—who he was—new signee to Top Dawg Entertainment—I’d downloaded his mixtape months ago to my iPod—but never got around to it—but I’m traveling—and one of his songs comes on—I stop midstep—keep finding myself rewinding his verse through my coat—it’s the flow of it that catches my attention—but then I hear words—that are imitating my life—my heart quite nervous / 95 I’m swerving / then I hit them curbs—and my daddy call / I barely answer / fuck parental curses—and I spit too many verses / I know you fucking heard ’em / so why you leave them voicemails that you know gone hurt me—the train stops—my stomach swirls—mouth open—looking around wondering how nobody is talking about this—immediately, he becomes—my new favorite rapper—I play the whole tape daily for like six weeks straight.
Picture me—swapping out the known for the new—every five to seven years—a type of branding—I glide from Lil Wayne—to J.Cole—to Isaiah Rashad—another Southerner—around my age—who was most likely inspired by Lil Wayne—and J.Cole—before he began to sound like himself—but also me—so part of why I keep pressing play—is to figure out how—was he even found in the first place—did he have to move?—did he have to leave?—like me?—how he rapped about similar things—but made them feel different—sporadic—like what comes outta my head—clouded, to a certain extent—his generally awkwardness of never being sure—if he’s saying the thing he needs to—clearly— or, correctly—I don’t know I have words of my own I need to write yet—it’s 2013—and if you’ve known me in my formative years—you know I’ve had plans of grandeur, career-wise—I thought I wanted to be a music journalist—so I place Isaiah Rashad into my curriculum and learn what time I need to leave my dorm in order to make it with one minute to spare—in my ears, there’s so much of my life that it’s sickening—I didn’t know I had these thoughts—I didn’t know there could be a man who is a stranger who sees me—the lines in the verse previously mentioned—is what made me start writing personal essays—I think of it often—the way he slid into the shift of the beat the moment he said the word swerving—in and out of topics—yet still creating correlations—mostly I thought about my father if I’m being honest—but I’m tired of thinking about that, so I’ll try not to center it here—but it’s hard—when a lot of my admiration for my last favorite rapper—which similarly feels like a first love—which generally feels calming—uses all of his songs to express the never-ending nature of the parental dynamics—he’s already said everything I’ve ever wanted to say—listen to any song—there I am.
Picture me—tryna figure out how to present him—and myself—to my Hip Hop history course—for weeks I ponder taking him to my class—’s discussion board—I link “Hurt Cobaine” and “Part III” into my post—excited about the responses—the pending class discussion of him—it’s all so exciting for me—I stand on the train—because I’m so excited to hear—their thoughts—and—they don’t hate it—but they don’t get it either—Isaiah too country—too, specific—and plus—it’s the fall of 2013—so why should they—when Chance the Rapper is blowing up—a hometown hero—Acid Rain falling into random conversation—it’s everywhere—Chicago has rallied behind him and it—as they should—deeming him the new one—of the new school—and I’m lucky enough to be there to witness their pride—since Acid Rain—is really fucking good—and ahead of its time—even today’s time—so I get it—why being from Chicago doesn’t let them dissect something so Deep South—with open hearts—although I think they trippin, trippin—since I’m floored—Isaiah saying everything I’ve ever thought—and sometimes in one verse—and sometimes in one line—his voice—clearly less confident than it’ll eventually become album to album—but even with his earliest stuff—there’s hiccups of course—looking back—it wasn’t the greatest—it was more the excitement of finding—a new musical obsession—yet it’s apparent that he’s giving his listeners himself—it’s apparent—that he knows what to do with words and sounds simultaneously—that vulnerability will always surpass everything else—when it comes to hip-hop—even in his beginning stages—he’s still better than a lot of his peers—becoming some kinda pseudo-literary hero for me overnight—who I deem the one to watch—even today—but I’m just a Texan—in the middle of their city—where most people don’t drive cars—to understand what I mean—that sometimes these sounds require you—to come from it—instead of come to it.
Picture me—knowing an album will follow—and it does—Cilvia Demo gets released in 2014—and I’m out of my favorite class—but in creative nonfiction workshops—where professors who care about my work write in the margins of drafts—“it seems as if when you start to truly reveal yourself, you hide behind abstractions”—while I stand in trains—moving too fast—wanting to finish— trying not to cry to “Heavenly Father”—I recently watched an interview where Isaiah said the same—how he’s done it on purpose—hid—so people won’t know how dark he feels on the inside—it’s sporadic, defensive sometimes—bouncing off the walls of others—rapping bout the woes—and the hoes—ok, that was corny—but he does—often simultaneously—but his themes, intact—addiction and ambition—family and forgiveness—drugs and depression—i.e—his life—but most of the bones—intricate—almost, gutting—the way he puts the words in place to create an affect—yet somehow the masses still can’t grasp it—the gravity—how he said he uses his skill set to distract—but if the world wants him to say it plain—the density of it might be the cause—of his self-destruction—I understood exactly what he meant—the album gets his name out there more—but not nearly enough—which ain’t a problem—we just make it one—I learn this in college—this art school—how a lot of it revolves around people acknowledging you—more than they do the work—how a lot of it is just artists talking a lot and ending all their statements with right?—I never know what I’m being prompted into agreeing with—but I’m finding my style—as a writer—who writes solely about herself—who’s starting to submit those stories about myself to lit mags—and learning the inevitability of rejection—of people not getting my voice—the nature of my mental rollercoasters—but it’s something to be said—in the discovery of it all—an unknown of what’s next—knowing how and what will let you down—that doesn’t resonate—or, maybe it’s just my lack—of proper grammar.
Picture me—the spring of 2017—my college experience soundtracked—I’m taking a Story and Performance class—I’m learning how to collide—what I feel—with what I think—I’ve found my thing—the personal essay—and in this class we must learn to perform it—and months prior—Isaiah releases his sophomore album—The Sun’s Tirade—with another one of my favorite verses—of all time—sing-songing beat me down / you beat me down /reorganize my face—now when I go home / I don’t know what my fam gone say—I’m paired—with an audio student—who’s a freshman—and as we discuss my essay of my family—’s rage—and how once we almost crashed our cars—into one another—an essay that’ll end up in my first book—my performance partner—asks me what I like to listen to—I already know—what I want—it all to feel like—come set time—I give him song titles—and album names—and he looks with wide-eyed wonder—when I mention my favorite rapper—immediately—he shows me his phone—how he was just listening to the album—we talk for hours—about the work—he calls it “too real”—and “underrated”—and I think about before—when nobody knew his name—and how even now that some do—there’s a disconnect—there’s a modulation of understanding—as he raps—freak me out / keep me out / why they always leave me out—and still—I get it—even more than I thought—I ever would—like the other Southerners before him—who’ve had to overprove themselves—who will always walk around knowing—yet still feeling like imposters—who can only be embraced—behind the wheel—who are always maybe—traveling at a pace—way ahead of its time—and how maybe that’s enough—to stop the attempt—of explaining—your region—because it ain’t for the largest audience possible—because that’s the trap—that forces you—into a game of acclaim—instead of simply creating—and letting the others—catch up— via long-form essays—I rather just picture—me changing—my mind—with my art—I graduate—with this art—and I get a new car—where I play—“Dressed Like Rappers” back to back to back—because honestly—at my core—no matter what I thought I wanted—not a single lie was told—every time I hear—And I could testify / cause who’s ashamed?—and that’s only the chorus—the recollection—of what’s been said—and how it always requires—you to begin—again.
Kendra Allen was born and raised in Dallas, Texas. She loves laughing, leaving, and writing Make Love in My Car, a music column for Southwest Review. Some of her other work can be found in, or on, the Paris Review, High Times, the Rumpus, and more. She’s the author of a book of poetry, The Collection Plate, and a book of essays, When You Learn the Alphabet, which won the 2018 Iowa Prize for Literary Nonfiction. Fruit Punch, her memoir, is out now.
Make Love in My Car | Episode 4
Make Love in My Car | Episode 3
Make Love in My Car | Episode 2
Make Love in My Car | Episode 1
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