Nicki Minaj's Retroactive Feminism
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Last month, Nicki Minaj was part of a dust-up that underscored how important the Queens-born rapper is to young women. At Hot 97's Summer Jam—arguably the most important arena concert in New York hip-hop—a white Hot 97 DJ by the name of Peter Rosenberg made some disparaging comments about her music while introducing another artist. "I know there are some chicks here waiting to sing 'Starships' later—I'm not talking to y'all right now. Fuck that bullshit. Bullshit. I'm here to talk about real hip-hop shit."
"Starships" is Minaj's latest number-one pop-techno hit, and to "real hip-hop" heads, Rosenberg was indicting the commercialization of rap. But to those of us who are "real hip-hop" heads, Nicki Minaj fans, and also "chicks" at the same time, Rosenberg's comments illustrated the gender divide in hip-hop that has made it so difficult for women rappers to ascend to the level of their male counterparts.
Minaj is the most famous female hip-hop artist of all time, boasting a string of Billboard top hits and mainstream magazine covers, a feat that took a good 10 years to achieve against the backdrop of Lil Kim and Foxy Brown holding court in the '90s, and having major career setbacks in the '00s. And sure, "Starships" is a pop-techno song, but Nicki Minaj is a top-notch rapper, at least as good as her label boss and NOLA superstar, Lil Wayne. That the song was cast as purely the provenance of women (by a white man, no less) helped make Minaj's legions of rabid fans worldwide (she calls them Barbz, feminizing both genders by nicknaming them after Barbie) even more loyal to her movement. She is vehement about being a positive role model in kind. She respects and encourages her fans as much as she can, and early on in her career, she toned down the sexuality of her image after realizing how many young women look up to her.
I adore Nicki Minaj. I love all of her music, "Starships" included. I wrote one of her first cover stories, I can rap along to her earliest mixtape cuts, I admire the way she carries herself with dignity yet never squelches her impulse for experimentation and drama. (Like that time she did a faux exorcism at the Grammys, to confused and mostly disdainful response.) After years of hoping for a powerful woman rapper to fill the void left in the mainstream by the fading of Fox and Kim, after years of false starts (Remy Ma) and fruitless hopes (Rasheeda!), it seemed that Minaj was the vision I'd been waiting for. Her Beam Me Up Scotty mixtape, with her take-no-shit attitude and totally unique, totally electrifying rap style, was like the heavens parting.
It's hard to overstate this. Imagine ANY other genre lacking ANY women popular in the mainstream for at least five years. It hasn't happened elsewhere, so for feminists and rap fans, her arrival gave us hope. And indeed, her popularity has opened doors for other women rappers in the mainstream—witness the rising star of young Harlem spitfire Azealia Banks, for one. But there's one thing about Minaj that stops just short of making her my rap life savior. And that's how her brand of feminism is retro '90s—and how she's been set up by the male-centric structure of hip-hop to define herself by dissing other women.
Brags and disses are inherent to the culture of hip-hop—part of defining one's self is by showing how flamboyantly you can cut down someone else—and Nicki Minaj as a spitter is not exempt from this tradition. But the feminist inside me wishes this was not the case, beginning with her feud with Lil Kim during the release of Pink Friday, after Kim accused her of stealing her style. (Prior, Minaj properly genuflected at the throne of Kim.) A few unfortunate barbs back, and the first single from Minaj's second album, Roman Reloaded, is "Stupid Hoe," a Kim dis that is sonically adventurous, lyrically amazing ("You can suck my diznik, if you take this jizz-is,You don't like them disses, give my ass some kisses"), and then verbatim calls her adversaries "Nappy headed hoes."