The rap god was a one-of-one — and a conduit for father-son bonding
By the nature of their profession, music stars get elevated.
They’re elevated by the very stage on which they perform, illuminated by bright lights cascading onto them. All of it assists in separating these celebrities from the masses they entertain. It’s as true of hip-hop as any genre — maybe more so, with the presence of so many larger-than-life personas in the culture. Bravado and braggadocio are staples of a genre that spins yarns of millionaire playboys and godfather kingpins, young rhyme-spitters blending fact and fiction into lyrical tirades meant to entertain and manifest the wealth that eludes so many.
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Some will say America is better than this — it’s not
For the longest time, whenever my mother dreamed of a baby, she’d call me to talk about my future children. She’d describe in vivid detail the child’s mix of features, curly hair, and fat cheeks. If she saw a blonde baby, she’d ask if I was dating una rubia, or someone possessing whatever other characteristics she knew didn’t exist in me. The answer was always a resounding no. No, I wasn’t dating una rubia. No, I wasn’t even thinking about kids.
My mother still dreams of grandchildren, but their features have changed. Dirty blonde hair has become the darkest shade…
The island of Puerto Rico is an island of many rhythms. Whether it’s the salsa that cascades from the open windows of pastel-colored houses or the cars that pass with their trunks open and speakers reverberating the heavy bass of dembow, the streets are alive with music. But there is another rhythm, an older rhythm, one birthed in rebellion and practiced in secret. It is the rhythm of kokobale, the Puerto Rican art of machete and stick fencing.
Among the African diaspora of the Caribbean, machete fencing has a rich history. Martial arts like the Haitian Tire Machet or the…
The island doesn’t need high-rise residencies; it needs a sustainable future
A few weeks back, as I scrolled through my Instagram feed, I stumbled across an image of a woman in tears. That woman was Bianca Graulau, an acclaimed Puerto Rican reporter celebrated for her coverage of important issues across the island.
Graulau has tackled topics like the paper extinction of the native Taíno peoples and the island’s loss of food sovereignty, yet her latest topic hit particularly close to home. …
Photo Credit: Andrew Stephenson
I understand the appeal of trap music. Drill too. Really. The combination of heavy bass, minimalist lyrics. It reverberates in such a way that it becomes easy to lose oneself, become one with the vibes. It’s automatic, effortless, difficult to separate where the beat starts and the body begins. Lyrics. Flow. Little by little they are broken down, until they melt into the beat rather than stand apart. The goal is fusion, the music creating a space where a vibe can exist. And to partake in the vibe is to be the vibe.
I get it.
The ‘Bad Trip’ duo talk chemistry, almost dying on set, and the magic of Tiffany Haddish
“First of all, are you safe? It looks like somebody kidnapped you.”
Lil Rel Howery has just beaten me to the punch. Not to be outdone, Eric Andre quickly follows up with, “Blink twice if you’re in a hostage situation.”
We’re about 20 seconds into our conversation and we’re already laughing. I’ve forgotten the questions I’d prepared, let alone their sequence. But the laid-back air and laughter also confirm a suspicion I’ve had since watching the duo’s new film: These two have genuine chemistry.
That chemistry is the driving force behind Bad Trip, which lands on Netflix on March 26…
For the longest time, whenever my mother would dream of a baby, she’d call me to talk about my future children. She’d describe in vivid details the child’s mix of features, curly hair, fat cheeks. If she saw a blonde baby she’d ask if I was dating una rubia, or someone possessing whatever other characteristics she knew didn’t exist in me. The answer was a resounding no. No, I wasn’t dating una rubia. No, I wasn’t even thinking about kids.
My mother still dreams of grandchildren. But the features have changed. Dirty blonde hair has become the darkest shade of…
Let me tell you about my most faithful friend, Georgia May
March is here on the island of Puerto Rico; the sun hangs a little higher in the sky as trade-wind breezes stir the ocean swell. Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and with it, Georgia May’s birthday. She is seven now, with a soft tide of gray hairs encroaching her whiskers, but her pit bull eyes still shine with youth. A mixture of hope and sadness has defined her longing gaze ever since I brought her home six years ago. …
Transforming a landfill into an oceanside oasis isn’t easy, but it’s necessary
As you drive down Puerto Rico’s Route 466, the Spanish-style houses and roadside panaderías start to peel away. The road buckles and plunges toward a white-capped Atlantic. Seaside cliffs rise, and trees stretch gnarled limbs into a semi-canopy.
Driving farther still, you reach the remnants of a dune sea tracing the asphalt. Beyond the sandy, mangrove-dotted hills, the sound of the ocean rises as it hammers the shore. This is the Mabodamaca Community Natural Reserve in Isabela, Puerto Rico. …
It’s not harmless banter — it’s immature and offensive
In high school, the talk around the lunchroom table was peppered with some now-questionable phrases.
It was almost impossible to get through a conversation without a chorus of interruptions — “Ayo!” and “Whoa” the usual two — indicating that you’d fucked up. And when that happened, the only appropriate response back then was to “pause” yourself:
“I could never be vegetarian; I like meat too much. Pause.”
“Yo, can I get another sausage? Pause.”
Any unintentional double entendre, any sentence that could be viewed as vaguely homoerotic, required us to pause the conversation and reclaim our manhood that was now…
Miguel Machado
Miguel is based out of Puerto Rico. When not on an adventure you can find him typing away. https://miguelanthonymachado.wixsite.com/wordsbymiguel
