Last month, J. Cole came out of musical and social-media hiatus to release a new song entitled “Snow On Tha Bluff.” But online, anticipation quickly gave way to argument. In the song, Cole addressed an anonymous “young lady” using her social media platform to talk about the things that have made her mad: white people, police, capitalists, and celebrities like him. Bothered by her tone, he asks “instead of conveyin’ you holier, come help us get up to speed.” Based on the lyrics, many speculated that Cole was talking about Chicago rapper Noname and her (deleted) tweet about how many of the top rappers who write about Black struggle are the most silent at this crucial moment in history.
Though silent up to that point, J. Cole had been at protests in his home state of North Carolina. And given that he’s in so many ways proven to be socially conscious, the anticipation was that whatever actual music he dropped would be both dope and nuanced. But the song garnered immediate criticism for tone-policing Black women — and for being remarkably tone-deaf considering the social uprisings happening across the country.
The following morning, Cole responded to negative reactions by tweeting: “I stand behind every word of the song that dropped last night.” He didn’t clear up speculation on who he was addressing but said that he “love[s] and honor[s]” Noname as a leader. “Meanwhile,” he continued, “a nigga like me just be rapping.” (Later in the day, Noname addressed the controversy in her own anonymous rebuttal, “Song 33.”)
Despite its lyrical dexterity, what “Snow On Da Bluff” truly shows off is Cole’s nice-guy patriarchy — treating women and femmes better in your interpersonal relationships, but not evolving into broader systemic critique of patriarchy and a Black feminist ethic. Rather than raising awareness of the issues Black women face and making sure we are fighting for them explicitly, he’s complaining about a woman not spoonfeeding him enlightenment; his patriarchal attitude is in the expectation of her labor, not necessarily the lack of his own.
There are many contradictions like this that exist in the Black male experience. We exist in and fight against an anti-Black society — while also replicating its sins by committing violence against Black women. This paradox is exemplified in a 1971 conversation between Nikki Giovanni and James Baldwin, where they discussed the troubled relationship between Black men and women. Baldwin explains that home is the only place he can express his anger; Giovanni challenges him to understand that Black women are going through the same struggles, but manage to smile, for the sake of their husbands and children. “I love you,” she says by way of critiquing his attitude, “so I get the least of you.”
Then and now, Black men are constricted by racism, but still benefit from patriarchy. For example, most rank-and-file members of the Black Panther Party were women, yet the iconography from the Black Power movement is largely male. This week, in an article in The Atlantic, author Tamara Winfrey-Harris wrote about how the nationwide outcry against systemic racism almost always centers men and boys. The victims that have spurred protests and uprisings have been Black men. Much like Nikki Giovanni in 1971, Winfrey-Harris writes about how Black women “must keep families together, manage the community’s collective grief, and lead the resistance with little acknowledgment of their own mental and physical well-being or safety.”
And while most of the victims of high-profile police killings are Black men, Black women face violence both from a police state and within their own community, particularly Black men in their own community. From Toyin Salau and Victoria Sims to Riah Milton and Dominique Fells, and countless other Black trans women who are unnamed victims in their own communities.
While I’ve tried to stay abreast of Black feminist thought and scholarship, I’m not immune to the thinking that seems to plague J. Cole. As a writer and journalist, I haven’t spent enough time covering issues that specifically concern Black women and queer people. There are important Black feminist texts on my shelf that I haven’t touched since I bought them. I look back in embarrassment at a time I once told a close friend that, unfortunately, women bear the burden of informing men about sexism.
I’ve made a career of conveying information to people, so the idea that you should make things simple for folks appeals to me. Yet, when Cole raps that the unnamed woman he’s addressing needs to “treat people like children,” Cole seems to not understand how that comes across to Black women. Black feminism asks Black men to pause and reflect on how our perspective may blind us to the sexism, homophobia, and transphobia Black women and queer people experience.
There’s a way out of this for J. Cole, though, and it depends on his willingness to sideline his pride and ego. “Snow On Tha Bluff” centers Cole’s own feelings; instead of listening to, internalizing, and amplifying the voices of Black women, he’s only interested in unpacking his reaction to them. The pathway to equality is sympathy, empathy, solidarity. Sympathy is feeling bad for your neighbor; empathy is putting yourself in your neighbor’s shoes. But true solidarity is commitment to the political equality of your neighbor without you figuring into it at all. Writing a song about how Black women fight for themselves is sympathy, and even empathy — but it’s not solidarity.
Noname has talked about how her own understanding of many issues has evolved over time. Wrestling with constructive criticism is a key part of evolution. However, Noname didn’t change her mind on things only because she was challenged — she did the work. She listened and read. She even started her own book club, with chapters around the globe. That’s work J. Cole needs to be doing as well. Having this conversation with Noname (or whomever the song was directed toward) via text or on the phone would have been a better way to support her and other Black women. It would have been a learning experience in dialogue as opposed to a monologue. Ask her questions, learn about her experiences, find out how you can help in her political struggles, get book recommendations, ask where you can donate to help promote positive change.
The most disappointing part of J. Cole’s response was his claim that he hasn’t done a lot of reading but he does do a lot of thinking. As Arundhati Roy, one of the great writers of our time, once wrote, “Revolutions can, and often have, begun with reading.” Reading thinkers like Angela Davis or James Baldwin can be a form of radical intimacy between Black men and women. It gives us a shared language, shared histories, shared strategies for revolution, shared visions. It makes organizing and mobilizing more efficient (since you don’t have to stop to explain things to folks). And it can be a radical form of decentering — reading books that don’t speak to or for Black men; books like This Bridge Called My Back or All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men, But Some of Us Are Brave.
When Black women hear a black man criticize their tone, they feel frustrated for being asked to do more. Cole has publicly said he loves and honors Noname, but calling her up privately to ask what he should be reading and doing would have been much more constructive. Black women lament the work they already have done and the work we as Black men have yet to do. Whether we’re just rappers, college graduates, business owners or like J. Cole, all three. It’s when he uses his mouthpiece for good that he shows how human, flawed, and complex we can all be.
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Previously Published on Medium
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Photo Credit: Kirstenmgreene Creative Commons license via Wikimedia Commons