Like most middle age white guys, I was busting a dope freestyle (rapping) for my son when I took notice to the less than impressed look on his face. The wrinkled brow, the curved lip, it was a look I had seen before (Breakin' Beat Street, Rappinhood). And if my memory of 80's hip hop stood correct (and it does), his reaction led me to believe that I was wack. I stopped mid-rhyme to take a closer look, stunned by this blatant disregard of etiquette. The protocol of the streets clearly dictates that if someone—namely me, is dropping science, you let said mc have his say before rebutting.
But as evidenced by the Pottery Barn Kids magazine on the coffee table, this wasn't the streets. So there I stood, or knelt rather, crushed after being straight dissed and dismissed in such cold fashion by my own son. I abandoned my epic freestyle, and instead let him know that if he wished, I would be more than happy to flatten the cardboard of that Sam’s Club diaper box to show off my breakdancing skills.
Now my son is 6 months old, far removed from the golden age of poppin’ and lockin’, and I'm not so sure I can even fit into my parachute pants anymore. But I saw this as no excuse to let his aspersions go unchecked. My challenge hung in the silence...even the dogs cocked their heads in anticipation. And just when I thought I had won him over he giggled, then laughed, and then broke into a slobbering uncontrolable cackle combined with a waive of the hand to let me know--in case I had misinterpreted, that I am in fact a wack mc.