You created the very first hip hop comic book. I’m writing you now to see if you might be interested in collaborating on a hip hop graphic novel.
I love the range, the styles, and the open spirit of your work. You collaborate with and are inspired by such different artists, and you have such a genuine appreciation of what they do. All your work is big-hearted and open-minded. One mural of yours appeals to me especially, and made me think you might like this project: the wildly joyful dunker in the house of Michael Haynes in Atlanta. If I could describe my life-mission as a writer, I would say I hope to write the way that dunker dunks.
This book, Tyrell Cotrell: the Hoodoo Hand, is a hybrid that I call a hip-hopped graphic novel. My wildest dream is to work with an artist of your caliber.
It’s a Faust story with a washed-up basketball player who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for a shoe contract. When the deal starts to go bad, he must chase the devil through America’s past and the global economy’s present, through a sweatshop and a coal mine worked with child labor. In the final confrontation, he must kill the devil himself in the fire and brimstone American hell, the slave ship.
I have made a dummy to show my rough idea of how the book might come together. Of course any final project would involve collaboration with the artist and their vision. The book would definitely feature larger blocks of text than is typical in a graphic novel, with few of these being a traditional speech bubble. But here the ethos of hip-hop lyrics would come into play. Rap demands such a respect for language that readers of graphic novels would quickly adapt to the form.
I’m an English teacher at Shaker Heights High School in Ohio, and I’ve taught all ages and levels, from remedial freshmen to advanced seniors. I’ve been writing all my life.
As Ta-Nehisi Coates might say, I think I’m white. But I know I’m not a rapper. I’m a writer, one who has found a literary form uniquely suited to my skills. I don’t look or act in any way to mimic any conceptualizations of hip-hop culture. In my writing, I try to avoid the tropes of the genre that might be authentic for an MC, but would be phony from me. Really, I’ve just tried to write a poem. And poetry, like all art, advances by endless hybridization.
I’m including a few sample lines. If you would like to see more of the story or, if you’d like me to mail you the dummy of the first chapters, please let me know.
Thanks!
Chris
Ruben Chadwick begins my story—
“Ruby the Rebounder,” as known in glory,
But I had names more derogatory
When he signed a deal
With Spikey Shoes,
And I could feel
The blues suffuse
My brain, & ooze
Clear out to my tattoos.
Ruby the Rebounder: 6-10, 330,
Under the hoop he liked to hurt, he
Was vicious, violent, devious, dirty:
Elbows swingin like knights’ spiked maces,
Connectin with faces,
Knees jabbin at other places.
Six senses of fury & six-gun hustle,
A 6-armed Shiva in an airborne tussle,
A 6th of a ton of box-out muscle.
* * *
Coach Kincade cussed, & kicked a chair,
And yanked at his mop of wild white hair,
And moaned like a constipated polar bear,
And howled at fate, & raved at God,
And glowered with hate when he gave me a nod.
* * *
Professor Naismith’s peach basket
Is a big white barrel with an orange gasket—
Any range is in my reach—
Another shot—another peach!
Wilt the Stilt’s century hole:
Looks bigger than the Rose Bowl.
I toss my 3’s
With consummate ease.
Swish!
I’m unstoppable,
Any shot is droppable,
Any record toppable.
(Any rhyme hip-hoppable.)
No need for a tap-in—
That just ain’t happenin’.
Nary a rebound to be found.
And as for Ruben, I pity da fool—
I’m real cool—
It’s like throwin oranges in a swimming pool.
* * *
My face was seen
On the cover of every magazine
But AARP and Seventeen.
I was tweetin twitters to heavy hitters,
Wine & cheese with VIPs,
Puffin cigars with Hollywood stars,
Midnight swimmin with Congresswomen.
The President called me for jump-shot advice,
When he was blocked by the Vice—twice!
* * *
* * *
The whole place moved with a regular rocking:
I realized it was a ship.
And then—the thought was shocking:
A slave ship, a Middle Passage trip—
A dip
Into the nadir of humanity . . .
When Christianity, profanity,
Democracy, hypocrisy,
Economic upheaval, astronomical evil
Were pell-mell . . .
When the Aryan totalitarian
And capitalist terrorist,
Drunk on power, drawn every hour
From the same poison well . . .
When the flag was draped
Around the man who raped,
And took his own child to the block to sell . . .
When the Bible was libel
For sinister ministers, masters’ pastors:
Real religion? Not a smidgen.
And the Constitution?
Word pollution,
An empty shell . . .
Oh say, I could see
That Canada was the land of the free,
The USA, the grave of the brave,
The Liberty Bell, a death knell . . .
Where was I? I could tell:
This was no facsimile,
No simile,
No literary parallel . . .
This
Was
Hell.
Chris Cotton
Dear Eric Orr,
You created the very first hip hop comic book. I’m writing you now to see if you might be interested in collaborating on a hip hop graphic novel.
I love the range, the styles, and the open spirit of your work. You collaborate with and are inspired by such different artists, and you have such a genuine appreciation of what they do. All your work is big-hearted and open-minded. One mural of yours appeals to me especially, and made me think you might like this project: the wildly joyful dunker in the house of Michael Haynes in Atlanta. If I could describe my life-mission as a writer, I would say I hope to write the way that dunker dunks.
This book, Tyrell Cotrell: the Hoodoo Hand, is a hybrid that I call a hip-hopped graphic novel. My wildest dream is to work with an artist of your caliber.
It’s a Faust story with a washed-up basketball player who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for a shoe contract. When the deal starts to go bad, he must chase the devil through America’s past and the global economy’s present, through a sweatshop and a coal mine worked with child labor. In the final confrontation, he must kill the devil himself in the fire and brimstone American hell, the slave ship.
I have made a dummy to show my rough idea of how the book might come together. Of course any final project would involve collaboration with the artist and their vision. The book would definitely feature larger blocks of text than is typical in a graphic novel, with few of these being a traditional speech bubble. But here the ethos of hip-hop lyrics would come into play. Rap demands such a respect for language that readers of graphic novels would quickly adapt to the form.
I’m an English teacher at Shaker Heights High School in Ohio, and I’ve taught all ages and levels, from remedial freshmen to advanced seniors. I’ve been writing all my life.
As Ta-Nehisi Coates might say, I think I’m white. But I know I’m not a rapper. I’m a writer, one who has found a literary form uniquely suited to my skills. I don’t look or act in any way to mimic any conceptualizations of hip-hop culture. In my writing, I try to avoid the tropes of the genre that might be authentic for an MC, but would be phony from me. Really, I’ve just tried to write a poem. And poetry, like all art, advances by endless hybridization.
I’m including a few sample lines. If you would like to see more of the story or, if you’d like me to mail you the dummy of the first chapters, please let me know.
Thanks!
Chris
Ruben Chadwick begins my story—
“Ruby the Rebounder,” as known in glory,
But I had names more derogatory
When he signed a deal
With Spikey Shoes,
And I could feel
The blues suffuse
My brain, & ooze
Clear out to my tattoos.
Ruby the Rebounder: 6-10, 330,
Under the hoop he liked to hurt, he
Was vicious, violent, devious, dirty:
Elbows swingin like knights’ spiked maces,
Connectin with faces,
Knees jabbin at other places.
Six senses of fury & six-gun hustle,
A 6-armed Shiva in an airborne tussle,
A 6th of a ton of box-out muscle.
* * *
Coach Kincade cussed, & kicked a chair,
And yanked at his mop of wild white hair,
And moaned like a constipated polar bear,
And howled at fate, & raved at God,
And glowered with hate when he gave me a nod.
* * *
Professor Naismith’s peach basket
Is a big white barrel with an orange gasket—
Any range is in my reach—
Another shot—another peach!
Wilt the Stilt’s century hole:
Looks bigger than the Rose Bowl.
I toss my 3’s
With consummate ease.
Swish!
I’m unstoppable,
Any shot is droppable,
Any record toppable.
(Any rhyme hip-hoppable.)
No need for a tap-in—
That just ain’t happenin’.
Nary a rebound to be found.
And as for Ruben, I pity da fool—
I’m real cool—
It’s like throwin oranges in a swimming pool.
* * *
My face was seen
On the cover of every magazine
But AARP and Seventeen.
I was tweetin twitters to heavy hitters,
Wine & cheese with VIPs,
Puffin cigars with Hollywood stars,
Midnight swimmin with Congresswomen.
The President called me for jump-shot advice,
When he was blocked by the Vice—twice!
* * *
* * *
The whole place moved with a regular rocking:
I realized it was a ship.
And then—the thought was shocking:
A slave ship, a Middle Passage trip—
A dip
Into the nadir of humanity . . .
When Christianity, profanity,
Democracy, hypocrisy,
Economic upheaval, astronomical evil
Were pell-mell . . .
When the Aryan totalitarian
And capitalist terrorist,
Drunk on power, drawn every hour
From the same poison well . . .
When the flag was draped
Around the man who raped,
And took his own child to the block to sell . . .
When the Bible was libel
For sinister ministers, masters’ pastors:
Real religion? Not a smidgen.
And the Constitution?
Word pollution,
An empty shell . . .
Oh say, I could see
That Canada was the land of the free,
The USA, the grave of the brave,
The Liberty Bell, a death knell . . .
Where was I? I could tell:
This was no facsimile,
No simile,
No literary parallel . . .
This
Was
Hell.