Patrick, my fellow! Jordon, maybe...

Okay, para quem leu ou vai ler o post, o texto abaixo é resultado de uma disciplina que fiz na New School nesse semestre. A idéia era produzir um romance de forma coletiva e orgânica. Cada aluno deveria criar e incorporar um personagem e escrever semanalmente de uma a duas páginas. O processo foi divertido e relaxante se comparado aos outros cursos que fiz, apesar de alguns estresses básicos entre a turma. Ao final tínhamos um romance e um meta-romance (um texto que se sobrepunha ao romance discutindo os personagens do mesmo). Abaixo segue uma passagem com meu character, um produtor de hip-hop escroto que mora em NYC.

Patrick, my fellow! Jordon, maybe…

“Why do you think the conscious hip hop is bullshit?” Asked me Patrick. “Because these rappers don’t have anything interesting to say, man.” “Okay, this can be true for US, but in South Africa we have a lot important things to be told by rap music.” “Well well, for me the political rap born and died with Public Enemy, we have just garbage in the industry and nobody cares. Nowadays people just wanna shake their asses with a good song and they don’t give a shit about the lyrics, man! Listen up Patrick, if you wanna make money keep rapping, okay? But if you wanna make politics get into university or a fucking NGO… Whatever man, I don’t even know why I am saying that shit to you, I am not your mentor or adviser, I am just the guy who make the beats. Say what you want and I gonna do it.”

I said that and drank a little bit more of my Colt 45 seating on couch at Patrick and Jordon’s apartment. Patrick kept in silence thinking about my cheap sociological look at inside of hip-hop industry. I like this couple, they look nice and comfortable with their new life in New York Shit. “So, we can use Fela Kuti in some tracks of your album, it will be cool, he was African you are African too.” “Bee, what do you know about Africa?” He asked. “Well, not too much.” I replied. “You should know more brother, this is your motherland”. “Really?” I said. “Someone had made a huge mistake because my motherland had sent my ancestors as slaves to Brazil.” After the ironic comment I opened a smile, which wasn’t corresponded by Patrick. “Come on, man? You have just arrived in USA and already started with this African American bullshit? Motherland my ass!”

Jordon was reading a book, but at this moment she stopped and looked at me with an upset expression. I knew she didn’t like me, for my turn, I didn’t have a final opinion about her like I have for everybody. She reminded me white European and American couples going to Africa to adopt a black baby. It doesn’t matter the fact she was black, my experience had taught always put the race card into a context. Keep the real my ass! I finished my beer. “So, do you have my stuff?” I asked him. Patrick took a paper brow bag and gave it to me. I passed him thirty dollars. “Listen brother, call me next week and we can talk about these ideas for your mix tape, okay? I know some friends who know some friends who fuck some other friends and we can talk about contacts in some label. Patrick didn’t say a word. “All right, sorry for the Africa joke, okay? It was just a joke! Call me, okay? Peace! Bye Jordon!” I didn’t wait for Jordon’s response. In some minutes I was doing my way to Brooklyn and my head was trying to capture and revive the sensations that probably I would get with the magic portion in that paper brown bag. I was so excited about the idea to arrive home and get high I almost didn’t see the white girl wearing a short jeans skirt, black boots, yellow-green t-shirt – probably of some soccer national team of countries such as Jamaica, Australia or Brazil –, and black sunglasses. Her yellow scarf was the best part of her clothes. Definitely, a kind of pin-up girl, New York Shit is full of pin-up girls! Fucking city! A white chick and her yellow scarf…