It’s tricky to rock a rhyme

Can you prepare a 13-year-old without making her cringe?

My wife and I gave our daughter a phone for her 13th birthday.  We want her to learn to use technology responsibly, and we decided the best way to do that was to let her start using it under our supervision. If we waited until she was much older, providing that supervision would be much harder—so we gave her the phone. We’re holding out on social media.

We try to be intentional about preparing our daughters to be out in the world on their own, but which lessons should we teach directly, and which should they discover through their own experience? What guardrails or safety mechanisms should we put in place so they can explore, learn, and grow while still staying safe? But not too safe? It’s tricky.

Giving my daughter a phone had an unintended consequence. I didn’t realize that my phone would never again be connected to the car when I was driving her around. No more of Dad’s Guided By Voices, Superchunk, Silkworm or other nostalgic ‘90s guitar bands. 

On one multi-hour drive to a soccer tournament she played the hip-hop playlist she had created with some of her friends. Kendrick Lamar, Okay, solid. Don Toliver, Bryson Tiller, Travis Scott, NF? WTF! Who the hell is NF?

And more importantly, where was Notorious B.I.G.? Grandmaster Flash? Where was Run DMC?

Another important parenting moment. This time I opted for the direct approach. I’m no hip-hop scholar, but I had to do something. 

“Sweetie, I'm going to need you to listen to me for a few minutes. This is important, OK?”
“OK… What’s up Dad?”
“It's not a mystery, it's history, and here's how it goes!”
“Dad, please don’t do that again.”

I asked her to add a few songs to the playlist. She may have rolled her eyes. I persisted. We started with the east coast.

“How do you spell Bambataa?” she asked, typing into the search bar as I told her which songs to add to the queue.

Afrika Bambataa — “Planet Rock”
Grandmaster Flash – “The Message”
LL Cool J – “Rock the Bells”
The Sugarhill Gang – “Rapper’s Delight” 
Notorious B.I.G. – “Juicy” 
Salt-N-Pepa—”Push It”

I explained the origins of hip-hop as best I could—how it emerged in NYC in the 1970s and ’80s, when kids threw street parties and made music with whatever they had. DJs scratched records to create new sounds, and MCs added poetic lyrics that reflected their lives.

“Good. That’s the East Coast—now let’s head West.”
“Then can I put my music back on?”
“Here’s Dre puttin’ it down for Californ-i-ayyyy”
“Ugh. Stopppp!”

I explained that West Coast rap started in Southern California. I told her how violent the East Coast vs. West Coast beef was, comparing it to the rivalry between Kendrick and Drake.

Then, we added some more songs to the queue.

N.W.A. – “Straight Outta Compton”
Tupac – “California Love”
Ice Cube – “It Was a Good Day”
Dr. Dre – “Nuthin’ but a G Thang”
Snoop Dogg – “Gin and Juice”
Warren G – “Regulate” 

She says she never pays attention to lyrics, but we talk about the themes in rap and pop music—the violence and the portrayal of women. My wife and I don’t hide this from our kids; instead, we encourage her to think about what she hears and form her own perspective.

Lecture nearly complete, I had just one more important message. 

“I need to tell you about one of the coolest things that ever happened to me and I need you to UNDERSTAND it, OK?”
“OK, Dad. I’m listening.”
“Now here's a little story I've got to tell…”
“Seriously, Dad, that’s enough.”

In 1996 I lived in NYC with my friend Chris while we were each working college internships. Outside of work we spent a lot of time record shopping. I’d drag him to stores like Rocks in Your Head for my punk rock fix, and I’d tag along to Fat Beats to browse hip-hop records.

Maybe that’s where we found the flyer. Or maybe we picked it up at Urban Outfitters. Regardless, we found a flyer.

“Do you know what a flyer is?”
“Dad, of cour—”
“It’s a piece of paper with information on it. That’s how we used to learn about things!”

The flyer had details about a show on the Upper East Side, not far from our apartment, at a club called Reminisce Lounge. It featured a black-and-white photo of three guys staring straight into the camera.

They sure looked like Run DMC. THE Run DMC? Maybe a tribute or cover band?

It appeared to be advertising a real Run DMC show. At an unknown club. Walking distance from our apartment. On a random Thursday night.

Was this real? 

What was this venue? That evening Chris and I took a walk from the apartment.

It was an odd neighborhood for a club, but sure enough, the same flyer was taped to the door at 334 E. 73rd Street. This was the place—though it didn’t look like much. It was tiny. The flyer claimed only 200 tickets would be available, but we weren’t sure 200 people could even fit inside.

We stepped in and bought two tickets from the bartender. Holding them in our hands appeared to be incontrovertible evidence that this really was going to happen. We treated those little strips of paper accordingly—like priceless currency, our entry into an impossible alternate universe.

The night of the show, we expected the place to be slammed, so we arrived early. But there was no line. We walked right in.

Was this real?

It was a weird setting for what was about to happen. Tables and chairs, the kind you would find at a jazz club, were stacked up against the side of the small room. It was empty, so it was easy to stand all the way up front—very close to the barely elevated platform where the turntables were set up.

A brief opening act played just long enough for a crowd to begin to gather—it was hard to tell how big from our front-row spot. 

From behind the simple wooden table Jam Master Jay started spinning and scratching and hyping.

“Mic check 1-2, 1-2 y’all ready to rock out there?”

Yeah!

“Did somebody say yeah? Say hell yeah!”

“What’s my name?”

Jammaster Jay!

“I can’t hear you!”

The music pulsed. Snippets of familiar samples tempted us, beats appeared and were scratched out. Building tension and anticipation.

Nodding, bouncing, clapping. Fists pumping the air.

DJ Run and DMC stepped in, wearing matching black denim. Stripped to the essentials. 

“This speech is my recital…”

I think it’s very vital!

It was hot and sweaty. We screamed. DMC high fived us. Run waggled his finger in our face and told us how it is. 

The crowd pressed forward. Mic cables tangled. 

It was real.

Three guys and two turntables could have blown the roof off Madison Square Garden.

My daughter skipped a few songs, trying to find just the right track—and snapped me from my reverie. The long straight highway rolled away beneath us. Still a ways to the tournament.

One day I want my kids to be out in the world, on their own, having experiences like I did. I want them to be confident and capable out there. I tell them my stories (and write them down) in part to inspire them to live a life full of their own stories. But it’s also scary. It’s hard to think of them out where I can’t protect them. Everything seemed so safe when I was younger. 

“It’s like a jungle out there, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under”
“Dad seriously.”

I will let go but I won’t like it. I will make them cringe, but it’s part of preparing them. 

So one day we can hear some really good stories.

“And if you don't know, now you know”
“Stop Dad, just stop.”

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Thanks:

Cam Houser

,

Coco Liu

,

Emily Brooke Felt

&

CansaFis Foote

for feedback and general encouragement.

My 13yo daughter for editing and putting up with me.

Julia Sunderland (my wife) for so many things, but particularly for partnering on the whole parenting thing.

Chris Gliebe my long time friend and NYC roommate… for jogging my memory of some details and for holding on to these incredible photos.

I also did some YouTube research to refresh my memory: