Teenagers Grapple With Meaning of Shakur’s Death

In a disingenuous moment, Tupac Shakur wondered on his 1995 album “Me Against The World” why he was a marked man. “It ain’t nothing but music,” he laughed during the song “Outlaw.” But Shakur knew the danger that surrounded him stemmed not simply from his music, but from the violence in his life. And he knew that fact made his music more powerful in shaping young minds.

Now, as Shakur’s record sales soar in the wake of his drive-by shooting death last month off the Las Vegas Strip--and the media debate his legacy as an artist or thug--the teenagers who made him a star are still grappling with the meaning of his death.

For many inner-city fans who use his rap music as an escape from the chaos around them, Shakur’s killing provided an occasion to say: “That’s what we’re talking about, Mom and Dad.”

To these youngsters, Shakur was one of the few artists who simultaneously articulated the agony and the fragility of their lives. “Everyone black knows someone like him,” a black essayist wrote in the New Republic last week--smart, talented, yet unable to resist the violence around him.

A month after he was fatally wounded in Las Vegas, Shakur’s eerie presence lingers in his fans’ lives. His music videos and songs fill the afternoons of teenagers when their parents are away toiling for bill money.

At night in many such homes, the notoriety of the slaying creates its own generation gap, with conflicting interpretations of the same event. Parents struggling to protect their children from violence wrestle with whether there is a lesson in the fall of an idol who toyed with violence. Their children respond that this event--unlike the deaths of singers John Lennon or Marvin Gaye--is an example of how artists who portray a violent world can no longer escape it.

Naomi Ewell, a bright 17-year-old Inglewood High School senior with dreams of attending Spelman College, said in the days following the shooting that she and her father disagreed about the meaning of the rapper’s death.

“My dad was saying he [Shakur] should have died ‘cause all he was talking about was shooting. But my daddy didn’t even sit down and listen to his music. All he wants to do is listen to those blues people,” she said disdainfully.

Valcris Ewell, 42, hears the criticism, relayed through a reporter, and suggests there is a bigger picture here, one that no rap video has captured.

“It’s more than just not listening,” says Ewell, a composer and ethnomusicologist. “It’s about understanding the long-term effects. Words that come out of your mouth have a reaction. Tupac’s visual was extremely negative, throwing up signs, portraying an image of violence. If you do that, you will get that type of response.”

Ewell grew up in East St. Louis, where he said the intensity of white-on-black violence was more deep-rooted than anything Shakur detailed in the ‘90s.

“These kids haven’t even approached the violence I grew up in,” he said. “There were white kids chasing me with pistols and knives. But we didn’t decide to kill people as a result, and we were in just as much pain as they are now.”

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In an hourlong discussion with Naomi and her classmates and teachers in a student government leadership class, the teenagers--unlike many adults--chose to compartmentalize Shakur’s lyrics, defending his messages of empowerment while renouncing the compulsive behavior that led him into countless scuffles and jail.

Student body president and varsity football player Demarcus Johnson said rappers are among the few people who “keep it real” in a society that sometimes ignores its domestic ills.

“To me rappers and R&B; artists are basically dealing with life as it is now,” said Johnson, 17, who lives with his mother and sisters. “Death is a part of life. So why not make a song about death? They are just trying to tell you what to look out for.”

Johnson’s teacher, 26-year-old Staci Farr, agreed that Shakur’s music has some political and social merit, but he couldn’t get past the crudeness and misogyny that many rappers use.

“I believe that their lyrics have something to say,” said Farr. “But if they would stop cussing all the time, it would be easier to take. What’s all the fluff for? And believe me, I have sat down and listened to rap till the cows came home. But after a while, I can’t hear those words any more. It’s offensive to me.”

The debate is particularly heated among African Americans because more than a third of all blacks buy rap music (as opposed to 8% of all whites), according to one marketing survey.

“Is this music gonna last?” asked counselor JoAnn Jolly-Blanks, a fan of what she calls real love songs, who has taught since the ‘60s. “Is it gonna be relevant? I mean are you gonna be 20 years from now remembering the words?”

Inglewood High School’s principal, Kenneth Crowe, recognizes the gap as traditional but harder to bridge because of rap’s extreme harshness.

“I think the culture of the times has changed the way we communicate with each other,” he said. “When I was growing up here in Los Angeles, peer pressure wasn’t so great and there was more reinforcement from parents. Now these kids have greater influences and demands placed on them. And as an older generation, we may not be aware of how this plays out.”

Ebony Bailey, a 16-year-old senior who hopes to become a judge, said Shakur is ultimately to blame for his own actions but his childhood mapped out his future. As in so many aspects of Shakur’s life, there were contradictions: He never knew his father and lost a few close friends to gunfire, yet he was fortunate to study performing arts at an upscale high school in Baltimore.

“You can’t blame your parents and society for things that you have done,” Ebony said. “But I still believe that if you have a strong parental background, then you are strong person--period.”

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To Bailey’s mother, a 44-year-old probation officer and Los Angeles native raised in Baldwin Hills and South-Central, Shakur’s slaying was a reminder of ominous outside forces--forces that can betray even the most well-disciplined kids.

“It scares me to think about what’s out there,” she said. “But what can we do? It’s not so much our fault as parents. We are trying to work all the time. But on TV when we are not there, all they see is violence constantly. That’s the way they are programmed.”

The students and teachers wondered whether a father figure might have saved Shakur from the death he thought was inevitable.

Shakur did too. Throughout his embattled life, he frequently said that not knowing his father and being raised by a mother who battled a crack addiction left him soured on ever having a family like the ones on television. Even the jailhouse-lettered “THUG LIFE” tattoo that spread across his stomach touched on this theme. It stood for: “The Hate You Give Little Infants F---- Everyone.”

Inevitably, said Valcris Ewell, somebody has to ask the rappers a question.

“What kind of answers are you going to give to the problems?” he said. “They are always just giving complaints. Talk to me about solutions.”