Midterm project

Midterm

Kristen Burgos, AKA Glenda Gryffindor, is a neo-rapper. She has very recently come into the rap game, when she started rhyming for a poetry class in 2007. Her piece, The Harry Potter Rap, has taken two genres and blended them into one interesting rap. The contents of her lyrics are both straight forward and thought provoking, and suggest that there are innumerable subjects to be discussed on a hip hop album. Since hip hop today tends to be a fusion of several different types of media, Glenda's rhymes construct the obvious Funky Detournement, from Ted Swedenburg's article about sampling, which discusses sampling from more popular music and ideas. She uses Harry Potter, which to many would be considered a "sell-out" novel, and constructs important parallels between it and Hip Hop. Glenda has the potential to be a true up and coming artist, if she continues to be as passionate about her live performances and lyrics. She could afford to put more thought into her video work if she truly wants to be able to make a name for herself in the hip hop game. Her performance on camera is unsure, and she needs to not articulate so much with her hands, she is clearly nervous but with more practice she has the potential for a promising career.

To Make ammends for being sick

In a fit of inspiration this morning I started writing, two sets of what seem to me to be equally hip hop arts, but one does not have the rhyming so much as telling the story of ones who should never be forgotten. Especially since I couldn't go to class yesterday, I wanted to be in the mindset of thinking about my projects and what I wanted to perform for the Hip Hop Collective Open Mic. I needed to think of something that was deeplyThe first is a bit of a hip hop critique, since one of the things we've been discussing in class is what makes hip hop authentic. I think I have rather high standards of that, and I try not to be so judgmental. I have oodles of respect for people who get up and recite their poetry right off the bat (major props to Chelsea, Bryce and anyone else who performed Tuesday) and I'm PRAYING that I manage to get out work that I would be proud to call hip hop. I think I may have found a start with this:
moving to me, and I figured the classes for which I signed up and couldn't wait to begin might do.

Apparently

It’s much better for my man to call me

A bitch than for me to love a boy of the backstreet

Persuasion or for me to prefer watching MTV

To kicking back to Harry Potter under a tree

Read about how Lupin never tricked Hermione

And how Sirius got burned off of his family tree

And how Dumbledore got obsessed with objects three

A cloak a ring and the wand of destiny

And how the cloak and the wand made their way to Harry

So he could fight Voldemort with Dumbledore’s Army

And Apparently

It’s better for me to want to hear

How Fity killed a ho n don’t live in fear

But I prefer Neville demanding respect

Hermione shooting Draco down with her intellect

Or her and Ron being allowed to be Prefects

N them telling Harry not to feel like a reject

Dumbledore did it because he thought he could detect

That Harry couldn’t deal with things in the proper prospect

He said that he wanted Harry to connect

To a world in which he was a technical defect

On the very first day of school I saw that a porcelain doll was in my class. She had thick, dirty blonde hair and amethyst eyes. Her name was Rebekah Weisman, and that day she became my best friend. That afternoon she was supposed to walk home by herself, but as fate would have it I was able to offer her a ride home with my mother and me. Mother pointed out that as she lived so close by, it would be no trouble to pick her up in the mornings as well. She was shy and whispered a humble thanks, and my mother told me how beautiful she was. Though I was only seven at the time, I could not have agreed with her more.

That night at supper when Father asked me about my first day of school, Rebekah was all I could speak about. She sat next to me in class, and had the loveliest penmanship of anyone in the class, as though she’d been born to write. She had promised to help me with mine, and she promised to tell me stories that her family liked to tell, and that she would make up stories to tell me since I liked them so much.

I asked her to marry me at a swing club in ____. She looked radiant that night, just as much like a porcelain doll as on the day I met her. She looked fragile, but not weak; like porcelain, she would cut the one who treated her with improper care. It is why I handled her so delicately that night- I wanted to preserve the greatest memory I could ever have of her- that midnight blue dress with

I dared not stick my neck out for anyone as I had done for my wife. I’d lost nearly all my friends, my patrons, and quite a bit of my credibility because I loved her so deeply. I loved no one so much, including myself, and I would have sold my soul to Hitler himself if it meant that she could remain with me.

When she came back she wasn’t the same. They had done something to her, something she was too horrified to speak of, but it was that day that I lost my wife. She wouldn’t take her life for several years, but the girl I had met all those years ago, my best friend, the woman I asked to marry me, the mother of our two children, was gone. I have her release papers here, and it is on these pages that I learned what they did.

The patient has blonde hair and orange eyes, we must hypothesize that she experimented with hair color and eye color to achieve sufficient swindling of the task force. She must have gotten fake papers to fool the husband, for we know him to be faithful to the cause. [Detailed accounts of prodding eyes, shaving her head several times a day, beatings, and most meager food rations] We have found no trace of other falsification besides the papers. She has sworn to not promote any unhealthy behavior; we therefore see no reason not to return her to her original habitation.

They may as well have ended her suffering, for I was never strong enough to do it myself.