Kriolu Interruptions

Kriolu Interruptions Local Lisbon Rappers Provoke a Rethinking of “Luso” and “Creole” Derek Pardue Portugal, juntamente com todos os países da Europa ocidental, está numa encruzilhada histórica. Como a migração a várias localidades européias tem se intensiicado e diferenças nas formas de linguagem, religião, raça e etnia tornaram-se mais visíveis, a questão que se apresenta é: como as comunidades têm reconigurado suas identidades? No caso de Lisboa, graças à longa prática da transculturação durante o colonialismo português e, mais tarde, no período pós-colonial, há um pressuposto generalizado de que Portugal estaria em posição de responder bem a uma crise. No entanto, para alguns jovens, especiicamente os rappers kriolu, essa versão de multiculturalismo remete ao Lusotropicalismo, um poderoso mas problemático discurso de congenialidade e excepcionalismo portugueses. Neste artigo, analiso kriolu, um idioma híbrido de Cabo Verde, cuja base consiste do português europeu e línguas da África ocidental, como uma complexa formação de identidade. Mais do que língua, o kriolu se manifesta, particularmente, em arranjos de espaço dentro de uma série de desenvolvimentos de bairros e imaginações coletivas. Com base na etnograia colhida em pesquisas de campo e de arquivo, argumento que o kriolu interrompe a mitologia nacional do Lusotropicalismo, assim como o paradigma do “creole” na literatura acadêmica em torno de encontros coloniais e identidades emergentes. Esta “interrupção” em nome da diferença é ainda mais peculiar dado o fato de que os caboverdeanos têm historicamente se beneiciado dos discursos e regulamentos assimilacionistas, como o Lusotropicalismo. I think it [Kriolu rap] is a [response to] lusotropicalism. hey try to limit Kriolu by inclusion, but, for me, Kriolu is not only Cape Verde and our diaspora, but much more . . . from Brazil to Jamaica.” (LBC, interview 2009) Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 ISSN 0024-7413, © 2015 by the Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System 153 154 T Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 he epigraph from LBC, a Lisbon-based and Cape Verdean emigré rapper, frames this article. he moniker LBC is an acronym meaning “learning black connection” and it is this racialized assertion of self and community (via “connection”) that helps guide the emergent signiicance of Kriolu, a hybrid combination of Portuguese and West African languages from the Atlantic archipelago of Cape Verde. he identity formulation of Kriolu-as-black in Lisbon implies new networks of belonging, including places such as Jamaica, thereby interrupting conventional Portuguese identity by ofering an alternative perspective on creole. However, LBC and other rappers’ views of Kriolu do not constitute a wholesale alterity from Portugal or Portuguese. here is a contingent interdependency but one that deviates from the national ideology of cultural understanding and reinterprets historical moments of contact glossed in terms such as lusotropicalism. Kriolu interrupts then by dislodging, albeit partially, the logic of being Portuguese, o ser português. Taking a cue from LBC and other local rappers, I investigate Portugal through the lens of Kriolu. Such a perspective enables a more comprehensive explanation of migrant identity as constitutive of contemporary Portugal and contributes to the general scholarship on creole identity formation as an articulation of migration and encounters. Scholars, politicians, and everyday folk have generally narrated the cultural story of Portuguese identity and territorial claim as a manifestation of “lusotropicalism,” a termed coined in the 1950s by Brazilian sociologist Gilberto Freyre (1953b).1 Lusotropicalism refers to the cordial control of Portuguese (post)colonialism based on “sot” power that translates into racial mixture, relatively lenient laws around civil rights, and a proclivity toward intercultural understanding and appreciation. For most Cape Verdean elites, Freyre’s concepts are a perfect model of their sense of cultural and linguistic history as well as a model for Cape Verde as a “modern” partner of Portugal during colonial and postcolonial periods. By contrast, LBC interprets lusotropicalism as control through assimilation when he says “they try to limit Kriolu by inclusion.” At irst glance, LBC’s comments may appear contradictory, “to limit through inclusion,” but it is the categorization of “Luso” and its implied ailiations that rubs LBC the wrong way. Kriolu rappers’ voices of discontent with Portuguese “inclusion” are important because they join a range of immigrant experiences across Europe that is forcefully obliging politicians and civic leaders to reassess the parameters and pragmatic function of citizenship. Unlike Angolans in Portugal or, for that matter, Libyans in Italy, Cape Verdeans have historically been considered “almost Portuguese” and by extension “almost European.” For example, the Salazar administration codiied this distinction into law in 1930 with the classiications of assimilados (“assimilated”) as opposed to indígena (“indigenous”). Pardue 155 While the term “lusotropicalism” itself has lost favor due to its colonial connotations, newer ones such as “lusofonia,” literally the collective identity of Portuguese–speaking countries, have followed a similar logic. Namely, to be Portuguese involves a unique socio-historical mindset where creole mixture of European “modernity,” Moorish folklore and African expressive culture constitute a natural baseline of interaction oriented by the Portuguese language. From economic trade agreements to educational pedagogy to the music industry, “lusofonia” has become an efective brand for contemporary Portugal, especially Lisbon, to cash in on Portugal’s “tradition” of racial and ethnic mixture during colonialism in the current milieu of globalization and marketing of multiculturalism and interculturality.2 he story of Kriolu is conlicted; it includes colonial mimesis and assimilation as well as racialized diference and African diasporic pride.3 Kriolu has been spoken for over ive hundred years and is the national but unoicial language of Cape Verdeans at “home” on the archipelago nation-state located approximately four hundred miles west of the coast of Senegal and abroad in the widespread Cape Verdean diaspora. As LBC implies, Kriolu is not simply a language but is also an identity by drawing attention to a particular kind of collective imagination—one that moves away from “Portuguese” parameters of former African colonial encounters and moves toward blackness, i.e. Brazil and Jamaica. For LBC and others, rap music is a forum through which they can expose the “social rupture” (Siu 2005: 28) that exists between Kriolu and “luso” discourses, a space where participants can test belonging and negotiate boundaries. Creole Context Kriolu is a Cape Verdean and diasporic expression of language and identity within the larger category of “creole,” a derivative of the Latin and subsequent Portuguese verb criare/criar meaning to “educate, breed or bring up.” Caribbean author and literary scholar Edward Brathwaite adds the etymological reference of colon in his deinition of criollo, the Spanish term for “creole,” as “one identiied with the area of settlement, one native to the settlement though not ancestrally indigenous to it” (Brathwaite 1974:10). hese deinitions are important because they frame “creole” as an identity that is neither indigenous nor foreign but a result of an interaction based in diference. For the most part, creole languages, people and cultural formations emerged from colonial encounters and have been especially inluential in the transatlantic or “Black Atlantic” region. “Creole” and more forcefully “creolization” surfaced as a keyword in the 1980s and 90s among scholars throughout the social sciences and the humanities in their attempts to historically ground and ethnographically describe multicultural populations.4 What was and continues to be refreshing about 156 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 the “paradigm of creolization” is that it provoked a realization that the inner sanctums of “the West” and the bastions of “civilization” had indeed become “creolized.” Namely, essential aspects of “Western” societies from language to religion to music to sports were “outed” as longtime, hybrid Calibans, that ot-cited Shakespearean character symbolic of miscegenous nativism, which had theretofore been assumed as squarely “French” or “British” or “American.”5 However, in the process of semiotic consolidation, a simpliication has occurred so that “creole” has come to mean any sort of mixture (Cliford 1988; Hannerz 1987, 1996). Kriolu rap reinserts the elements of alterity and power into the discussion of creole. In this sense, Kriolu rapper LBC echoes Sidney Mintz’s (1971) assertion that “creole” is a European invention that conlated geographical distinction with essentialist assumptions in the colonial context of hierarchy and social stratiication, particularly in the Caribbean and Latin America, both, of course, equally invented terms of place identity.6 Local Cape Verdeans’ insistence in rapping in Kriolu stands as a reminder that this hallmark of identity, i.e., language, is a site of contestation for control of cultural history and geo-politics. Discourses of serendipitous inclusion by the Portuguese continue to have traction in most residents’ minds but do not assuage the pernicious power of inclusion/exclusion that was part of Portuguese colonialism and remains signiicant in citizenship debates in Portugal as a member of the “New Europe.” Beginning with the work of Price and Mintz (1976) regarding New World creolization, scholars started to emphasize creole as located in the encounter and developed through cultural creativity. hey consequently suggested creole as an agent of change and not simply mixture. For Martinican intellectual Edouard Glissant (1989), change is not enough to capture creolization or creolité; rather, one must understand creole as a transformative encounter with necessarily oppositional political and cultural ramiications. It is in this spirit that Stuart Hall advocated for a more urgent interpretation of “creole,” as an emergent force in contemporary identity politics. Hall famously wrote, “that these [creole languages] have become as it were the languages in which important things can be said, in which aspirations and hopes can be formulated, in which an important grasp of the histories that have made these places can be written down, in which artists are willing for the irst time, the irst generation, to practice and so on, that is what I call a cultural revolution” (Hall 1995: 13) Cape Verdean Kriolu he presence of Kriolu in Lisbon among many young rappers is reminiscent of Glissant and Hall’s depiction of creole emergent cultures as expressions Pardue 157 that interrupt shallow discourses of inclusion oten found in nationalisms across the globe. I underscore the signiicance of the preix “inter,” a sign of relation, in the term “interrupt.” Kriolu is a rupture in between, a rupture shaped by cultural intimacy. Scholars such as Richard D.E. Burton (1997) have argued that “Creole” and “Afro-Creole” cultural expressions, heterogeneous as they are, constitute “contentions” not “conirmations” of racial and other social hierarchies (see also Bolland 1992). Moreover, such contentions, while consisting of “outside” elements (i.e., “Africanisms” and/or other “foreign” characteristics however deined), are ultimately internal or local afairs. hus, creole is “oppositional” and not “resistant” following Michel De Certeau’s ot-cited work on everyday life (Certeau 1980). My point here is simply to place my discussion of Kriolu as an interruption (and not a “disruption”) within the general discourse of creole as resistant/opposition. However, Kriolu adds a historical particularity that warrants attention from those outside of the “luso” world, an interruption within an interruption. Portugal preceded all other European countries by at least a century in exchange and conlict with West and Central Western Africa (Sweet 2003; Heywood and hornton 2007). Due to its strategic geographic position for both Iberian and West African traders, militias, refugees and other migrants, Cape Verde was a central point of creolization and a key intermediary point in the formation of what is now referred to as the “Black Atlantic” (hornton and Heywood 2007). Based on slave trade records, we know, for example, that during the iteenth and sixteenth centuries, when Portugal sought to expand trade routes, most slave ships stopped in Cape Verde before making their way to the New World. Historian Matthias Perl commented that Portuguese creole was early on a language used by non-Portuguese, such as the Dutch and English. It became a recognized trade language to do business in West Africa and was disseminated to various parts of Africa, Asia and Americas. Kriolu contracted ater the 17th century but it was once a transcontinental primary language of trade and power (Perl 1982: 12). Kriolu as a language and identity originated in the 15th century with the displacement of lançados in Guinea-Bissau and the parallel process of ladinização in Cape Verde, which featured a pragmatic linguistics in labor segregation and exchange (Rougé 2005). he term lançado refers to one of the results of the Inquisition in Iberia, i.e., a cleansing or “throwing out” (the Portuguese verb “lançar”) of Jews and Muslims. In addition, expulsion also took place voluntarily in subsequent generations, as mixed race men, the ofspring of white Portuguese tradesmen and black slave women, let Cape Verde and relocated in Guinea (Bull 1989). Subsequently, they became an integral part of the as petty bourgeoisie in coastal economies. While occasionally at odds with the Portuguese, these lançados actually linked the Portuguese via Cape Verde, their archipelago colony, with a sizeable territory of 158 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 West Africa (Batalha 2004: 22–23). he latter term, ladinização, marked the process by which slaves in Cape Verde were inculcated into Catholicism, the Portuguese language, and basic, manual labor skills (Carreira 1972). In a discursive shit from labor to phenotype, “creole” in the mouths of the Portuguese and then the Spaniards in the early 17th century became a term of racialization. Becoming “ladinizado” and separating from Kriolu translated into a pragmatic rise in value for the slave (Rego 2008: 147). Yet, a number of slaves, in fact, used their knowledge of variants of Cape Verdean and (African) continental “creoles” along with Portuguese as symbolic capital in exchange for their own manumission.7 In sum, Kriolu carried connotations of local breeding, labor management, and emergent racial discourses of passing, mobility and ixity among colonial populations. By the end of the nineteenth century Portuguese colonial oicials and scholars as well as Cape Verdean local elites became more conident that Kriolu’s value as a language and identity was best thought of as a transitional phase on the way to speaking and being Portuguese. In the words of Augusto Casimiro (1940), a poet and chronicler of what he described as the “colonial character” of the Lusophone world, Cape Verdean Kriolu was an “intermediary language” of assimilation. Casimiro based his ideas on the work of late 19th century philologists such as Adolfo Coelho, who had remarked that Kriolu lamentably indicated blackness but not necessarily an impenetrable alterity. “. . . hey [the Cape Verdeans] substituted a Moorish mixture of African terms and antiquated Portuguese pronounced with a reckless abandon with guttural stops. his was called lingua creola, without grammar or ixed rules. It spread from island to island . . . (Coelho 1882: 451–2). Coelho observed that the locals perform all facets of daily life in this idiom: “he locals don’t speak another language: [they] pray in crioulo;8 the parochial pedagogues teach the Christian doctrine in crioulo . . . hose who have traveled abroad understand Portuguese, but do not speak it” (ibid.: 452). Coelho went on to state that: “he whites reinforce this, as they learn crioulo, use it in domestic relationships, and rear their children in crioulo almost to the exclusion of pure Portuguese . . . (ibid.: 452). he Portuguese developed this paradigm of “Kriolu as a social fact” in various ways throughout the 20th century. For the most part, this approach beneitted Cape Verdeans and their life chances in the empire, at least rhetorically if not wholly in practice (see Meintel 1984). As Ronald Chilcote summarized, “according to the oicial view, [Cape Verdeans were] a culture diferent from and superior to the rest of Africa. As a result, Cape Verdeans were considered ‘civilized’ and Portuguese citizens. Speaking a creole Portuguese and proud of an indigenous literature, they had access to education. Mulatto Cape Verdeans served as administrators in the lower echelons of the African colonial service” (Chilcote 1968: 373). Pardue 159 Kriolu and Lusotropicalism he discursive turn from depicting Cape Verdeans as essential natives to productive hybrids hinged upon the idea that “creole” signiied phenotypic and cultural mixture. Moreover, Portuguese and Cape Verdean elites believed that Portuguese colonialism uniquely fostered and emboldened creole. And along came Gilberto Freyre. he timing of the heralded Brazilian sociologist was impeccable. As poet and journalist, Rebelo de Bettencourt, stated in 1952 during one of Freyre’s visits on his worldwide tour of luso-colonialism, “It’s good for us to hear, from time to time, voices like this one [Freyre] that lead us to believe again with optimism in the highest ideals of Portugal” (in Freyre 1953a: 425). For Gilberto Freyre, the Portuguese had a “special transeuropean vocation” (ibid.: 13), an “extra-european” dimension (ibid.: 125– 132) that “from the beginning,” he stated in his dozens of public speeches to Lusophiles, was a vocation of empathetic love under the sign of “a blackened Venus” (ibid.: 26). Ater some internal debate (see Castelo 1998), Portuguese oicials under the Salazar regime translated Freyre’s “Lusotropicalia” into contemporary political realities. Such ideological positioning from a desperate Portugal in the milieu of post-WWII Europe and the beginning of decolonization movements throughout Africa was an attempt to justify a glaring anachronism. In short, lusotropicalism under Salazar became a technique of inculcation vis-à-vis labor migration rather than a nascent politics of multiculturalism. With regard to Cape Verdeans, Salazar’s use of lusotropicalism stimulated migration beginning in the 1960s, as the administration granted labor permits to replace Portuguese nationals who had let for Angola and Mozambique in eforts to maintain Portugal’s African “overseas territories.” In addition, Cape Verdeans were recruited to take the place of Portuguese emigrants to more highly industrialized nations such as France, Germany and Luxembourg (Franco 1971; Rocha-Trindade 1979). his coupled with a series of droughts on the islands along with a restrictive quota system adopted by the United States helps explain the “boom” of Cape Verdeans in Portugal (Carreira 1982). Ater the fall of the Portuguese fascist state in 1974 and the success of African decolonization wars, writers and scholars began to relect more systematically on the contradictions embedded in “lusotropicalism.” Some of these came from Brazilians, who had become defensive of their international legacy attached to “racial democracy,” the emergent ideology during Brazil’s own experiment with fascism under Vargas during the 1930s and 40s. Of course, a younger Gilberto Freyre had lauded “racial democracy” publicly as the answer to race relations and the hallmark of Brazilian cultural nationalism. Such “scientiic” praise had captivated Portuguese and elite Cape Verdean lusotropicalists. For the Brazilian anthropologist Igor Machado, lusotropicalism 160 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 revealed an efective strategy in that “the Brazilian myth [could be] used as an ideological justiication for African oppression” (Machado 2004: 126). In a similar vein, Portuguese anthropologist Miguel Vale de Almeida ponders the contradictory uses and interpretations of Lusotropicalism in the form of a question directed particularly at Cape Verdean elite, who considered their country a microcosm of Brazil: “how could a theory of emancipation function at the same time as a theory of colonization?”9 (Almeida 2007: 127) In his analysis of Brazil’s relations with Lusophone Africa in the post-WWII period, historian Jerry Dávila also observes the ambiguous nature of lusotropicalism. “his set of beliefs was so powerful that it formed the conceptual framework not only of those Brazilians who supported Portuguese colonialism but even those who shunned Portugal, favored decolonization, and sought ties with independent African nations” (Dávila 2010:21). In a caustic pivot on Freyre’s own fascination with Portuguese “creativity” through interracial sex, contemporary Portuguese novelist António Lobo Antunes wrote, “I have always supported an installation of a statue or monument in some adequate plaza in this country, a monument in homage to snot, a snot-bust, slime-Marshall, spit-poet, expectorant-man of the State . . . , something that would contribute . . . to the perfect deinition of the perfect Portuguese: [someone who] bragged about sex and coughed up phlegm” (Antunes 2008: 24). Antunes, a former military medical doctor stationed in Angola during the decolonization wars, provokes the reader to consider the Portuguese colonial paradigm of desire/disgust of the Other through the coupling of sexual intercourse and hacking spit. Critical views of lusotropicalism, of course, have not been relegated to emboldened scholars and bitter military men. “It’s [speaking crioulo] something natural. My parents only spoke in crioulo with me. So, it’s obvious that I would sing some lyrics in crioulo. It means that I invest all of myself in the product.”10 In his matter-of-fact relection, local Lisbon rapper Núcleo helps establish a discussion of Kriolu agency as a “natural” interruption resulting from socialization. Despite all the history of Kriolu as assimilation and transition into “Portuguese,” Cape Verdeans continue to speak Kriolu proudly and identify themselves as Kauberverdianu (Cape Verdean) or Kriolu even if they are oicially Portuguese citizens (Carter and Aulette 2009; Märzhaüser 2010). At this point we have a sense of how Kriolu potentially departs from the national discourse of lusotropicalism and other “luso” discourses. Furthermore, we can appreciate how “Kriolu” recuperates a line of thinking that positions “creole” as not only about the encounter but also about diference, especially when one considers the experiences of space and migration. he remainder of this article addresses Kriolu interruptions as an ethnographic scene in contemporary Lisbon. Pardue 161 Kriolu Articulations of Space in the Field: Expanding Badiu (Karlos and Uncle C) On a stiling hot aternoon in August of 2009, Kriolu rapper Karlos, hip hop archivist Uncle C and I sat on the steps of the monument dedicated to Luís de Camões. Ironically, we sat at the feet in the protective shadows of the legendary Portuguese writer, whose 16th century epic poems Os Lusíadas established the Portuguese paradigm of “civilization” and a grand artistic relection based on the themes of travel, nostalgia, and the sea. Kriolu and the experience of Cape Verdeans have been the misrecognized partners of such glory and emotion, a story of forced migration and diaspora also linked to the sea and nostalgia. As the pigeons swirled about, Karlos was adamant that I understood the lack of representation of Cape Verde and PALOP (Países Africanos de Língua Oicial Portuguesa, African Countries with Portuguese as oicial Language), in general, in Lisbon schools and society. In school we just learn about Brazil and Goa [a Portuguese territory until 1961, located in contemporary Southwest India]. It’s like Cape Verde and the PALOP are simply part of Portugal. Treated that way. On the way to being Portuguese or something. I don’t know what interculturalidade [“interculturality”] is supposed to be. Kriolu is my medium of expression, me and thousands of others. A democracy has the freedom of expression. So, there you have it . . . You go through school and through the city with nothing about Cape Verde. he music industry is the same way. When I read a book by Amílcar Cabral, I knew I had to get out of Portugal. I wanted to spread Kriolu out. I represent the badiu and, in fact, my experience all over Europe is that they [non-Portuguese Europeans] love Kriolu. Here in Portugal and in Lisbon, there’s no interest. Karlos’ comments speak to spatial and ideological diferences of contemporary Kriolu. Similar to LBC, Karlos expressed his suspicion of assimilationist discourses such as interculturality and lusotropicalism, respectively. Amílcar Cabral, the revolutionary leader of African decolonization eforts in Guinea-Bissau and Cape Verde during the late 1960s and early 1970s, inluences both rappers. Although he was born in Portuguese Guinea, Cabral grew up in Cape Verde. His parents were Cape Verdean migrants of educated but modest class backgrounds. his background is signiicant because in his speeches and publications Cabral was particularly sensitive to class divisions in colonial practices of rule and the challenges of bridging such gaps in revolutionary struggles. Cabral interpreted the assimilado, the Portuguese bureaucratic term for the “good African” oten attributed to Cape Verdeans, as a tool of alienation. For Cabral, assimilation created a “social gap between the indigenous elites and the popular masses . . . [and a mindset with which] the urban or peasant 162 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 petite bourgeoisie considers itself culturally superior to its own people and ignores or looks down upon their cultural values” (Cabral 1970: 45). Herein lay the revolutionary potential of culture, in general, and Kriol/Kriolu (Kriol is the Guinea-Bissau creole) more speciically, i.e., a source of common ground and a medium to “re-Africanize our minds” (Cabral 1974) or what Charles Peterson describes as an “inward turning” (Peterson 2007: 122). Cabral’s interruption of assimilation involved a rethinking and reorganization of class and ethnicity for socio-political change. For LBC, Karlos and other Kriolu rappers in Lisbon, the project of Luso interruption also includes an interrogation of space, not simply in terms of “re-Africanization” or a diasporic nostalgia for the maternal archipelago but also a “spreading out,” in the words of Karlos, of Kriolu in Europe and a redeinition of various residential areas in the former metropole of Lisbon. As implied above, the economic and racialized dimensions of creole and African diasporas are relected in spatial arrangements. his fact helps explain the variants of Kriolu, including the early linguistic break between Cape Verdean Kriolu and Guinean Kriol, and the multiple dialects within Cape Verdean Kriolu. While an extended discussion of the axes of race and class as they relate to the migration trajectories of Cape Verdeans is outside the scope of this article, the brief socio-geographical sketch below helps contextualize the Portuguese case.11 he archipelago of Cape Verde is divided into two major island groupings, the Sotavento and Barlavento or Leeward and Windward islands, respectively. Travel between the islands remains arduous by boat and expensive and limited by plane. his has contributed to the heterogeneity among Cape Verdeans in their speech and their diasporic connections. In the case of Lisbon, the main émigré population comes from the most populous island, Santiago, located in the Leeward group. Santiago also contains the capital city of Praia, which holds roughly one third of the national population. Both Karlos and Uncle C refer to themselves as badiu, a term referring to both the linguistic variant of Kriolu and the general identity of a person from the island of Santiago, considered by the Portuguese and Cape Verdeans alike as the most “African” island of the archipelago. Karlos was born of Cape Verdean parents from the city of Praia and raised in the improvised neighborhood of Alto de Santa Catarina on the outskirts of Lisbon while Uncle C was born in Praia and came of age in the Azores near a U.S. military base. Uncle C joined Karlos in making the racialized claim that rap is more strongly aligned with badiu than other Cape Verdean islanders and linguistic variants. his assertion plays on the persistent stigma against badiu, a term that is linguistically akin to the Portuguese word vadio or, in English, “vagabond.” As in many cultures, the conlation of laziness and blackness was historically normalized in Portuguese colonial thought and formalized in Pardue 163 creole language such as the Kriolu term badiu. his background helps frame both Gilberto Freyre’s tone of disappointment when he described Santiago as “too negroid” an island as well as Karlos’ airmation of Santiago as the “real” Cape Verde. Uncle C and Karlos had facilitated our meeting by choosing an obvious landmark, i.e. the Camões statue and surrounding public plaza. his was unusual in my ieldwork experience, as most Cape Verdeans and virtually all Kriolu rappers reside outside of the historical spaces of downtown, Portuguese patrimony and, by extension, outside of Portuguese history. As mentioned above, Kriolu’s emergence in modern Lisbon dovetails with a signiicant moment of migration and urbanization starting in the 1960s. he presence of “social neighborhoods” (bairros sociais) and “improvised neighborhoods” (bairros improvisados) speak to the spatialization of Kriolu and the concurrent tensions around inclusion and belonging. Kriolu Spaces inside Lisbon: Urban Renewal and Chullage A relection on Lisbon urbanization provides a deeper understanding of Kriolu’s marginal position in Portuguese time-space or what Karlos complains as the state’s lack of interest in Cape Verde. While Karlos sees Kriolu as a discourse with potentially global appeal in need of expansion (“to spread out”), Chullage, a Kriolu rapper to be discussed in detail below, uses Kriolu as a call to local constituencies to exert leverage for negotiation with state agencies not only for better but also distinctive infrastructure in the neighborhood with the hopes of creating Kriolu spaces in the Lisbon landscape. Urban planners and scholars of the city have remarked systematically that the Second World War impacted the process of urbanization due, in part, to the various pressures modern capitalism exerted on displaced people and agencies of city infrastructure (Sassen 1994; Harvey 1989; Castells 1977). he dynamics of the relationship between laissez-faire real estate markets and government-subsidized housing has let its mark on the new metropolitan areas around the world. Lisbon is no diferent. his relationship has resulted in the regulated and unregulated development of suburbs. From 1950 to 1980, the municipality of Lisbon proper diminished ity percent in terms of relative population to the metropolitan area, a decrease of 68% to 34% (Salgueiro 1999: 87). Suburbanization has been heterogeneous and demonstrates a qualitative range in the type of housing and level of infrastructure development. In the case of Lisbon, demographic and economic shits during the latter decades of the Salazar/Caetano regime (1932–1974) transformed the districts and municipalities, located in the so-called North Margin (margem norte) and South Margin (margem sul), which previously had been riverside weekend getaways and countryside estates (quintas) for the Lisbon elite, into 164 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 locations of factories, transportation hubs, and intermediary market places. Migrants from the countryside of Portugal encountered signiicant groups of Cape Verdeans and to a lesser extent Angolans and Mozambicans to remake Loures, Seixal, Barreiro and Amadora into large residential locales. By the mid-1970s and the demise of the Salazarist regime signaled by the Carnation Revolution (Revolução dos Cravos), more “Luso-Africans” along with the socalled “returnees” (retornados), thousands of former oicials, laborers and their families under the Portuguese colonial regime abroad in the PALOP, moved into such Lisbon suburbs. Given these circumstances, one can imagine the challenge of public housing agencies to accommodate this intense demographic shit. he response was the “social neighborhood” (bairro social). All of the suburban municipalities cited above include a number of neighborhoods that were designed, planned and modiied according to a template of clustered apartment buildings around a central park with accessible streets of commerce providing basic services of groceries, baked goods, clothing, hardware and household items, as well as a selection of cafés and popular restaurants. Social services such as libraries and schools are somewhat farther removed, usually involving a bus ride. In addition, all of these municipalities contain “improvised neighborhoods” (bairros improvisados). In contemporary Lisbon, while the social neighborhoods consist of a mix of folks with kinship links to Portuguese rural areas, the “returnees,” gypsies or Romani, and PALOP immigrants (and by the 1990s a host of other countries in Eastern Europe as well as Brazil, China, India and Russia), the improvised neighborhoods contain almost exclusively PALOP residents. As is the case in shantytowns across the globe, migrants and other newcomers constructed homes and business locales on their own. hey occupied and recuperated names such as quintas and asilos, referring to the old rural estates of past generations. In Brazil, city administrations attempted several times to eliminate auto-construction in the urbanization processes of Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo and subsequently gave up the project as parties on both sides discovered the political and economic beneits connected to informality (Sachs 1999; Fischer 2010). However, Lisbon is well on their way to eradicating the improvised neighborhoods.12 Many popular and respected Kriolu rappers have emerged from the milieu of such a transition—from Cape Verde to Lisbon and then from improvised to social neighborhood. his is the case of Chullage, an activist artist, who locates his brand of postcolonial Kriolu politics, irst and foremost, in the neighborhood. Rapper Chullage prides himself on his Kriolu nickname meaning “stud” and “godfather.” Chullage moved from the improvised neighborhood of Asilo 28 de Maio ater it was demolished in 1989 to Arrentela, a bairro social Pardue 165 on the south side of the Tagus River. Chullage departed the Red Eyes Gang and has consolidated his position as a respected elder of hip hop in Portugal since the late 1990s. In June of 2007, we sat outside the small community center, Associação Khapaz, a term literally translated as “Association [of the] Capable.” Concepts such as “capability” and “skill” are particularly salient for hip hoppers and conventionally disenfranchised social groups, i.e. residents of “social neighborhoods,” and thus function efectively as symbols of convergence. he letter “k” does not oicially exist in the Portuguese language. It appears usually as a reference to English and by extension the global cache of the United States and “American culture.” While certainly U.S. rappers’ use of English inluences Kriolu rappers, the “k” refers to a diference from “Luso” and Portugal. It is not “Crioulo”; it is Kriolu. It is not the “Capaz” but the “Khapaz” Association. Chullage explained the politics of Kriolu presence in this manner: “it’s not just that I feel more comfortable rapping in Kriolu, it’s about getting everybody [non-Kriolu speakers in Portugal and rap fans around the world] to listen and go search for the meaning. It’s what we all did when we irst heard Public Enemy (the inluential black nationalist rap group from Long Island, New York during the late 1980s and early 1990s). We didn’t understand English. We looked it up. People can do that with Kriolu.” Yet, Chullage is not a separatist. His interruptions of “Luso” urban development and cultural identity have support inside the state apparatus. In the case of Khapaz, he organized and inanced the Association with the help of Programas Escolhas, a state sponsored organization whose stated aim is to improve the lives of immigrant and at-risk populations, predominantly located in the Lisbon and Oporto metropolitan areas. Personally, Chullage breaks down stereotypes of the standoish rapper without losing his critical edge. Supremely conident, Chullage balances toughness and sweetness, always eager to provoke. On our irst meeting, he turned to me and said: Yo, nigga, what have you done? Why are you up in here? See this [pointing to the Association building], this is a space that Kriolu hip hop created, where there was nothing before. You gotta make a place to speak before you can do anything. his is an island, but we’re not alone. I’m studying sociology now and a couple of the community center leaders are doing graduate degrees in health and social work. We’re taking hip hop to another level and making more spaces. he semiotics of “nigga” and “Kriolu” in contemporary Portugal are complex and contentious within the hip hop community. Unlike Brazil and somewhat more akin to the United States, “nigga” and “niggaz” (terms let as is by Portuguese and Kriolu speakers) are used ubiquitously in Lisbon hip hop. For many of my interlocutors the terms have been weakened as vessels 166 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 of racial signiicance, historically or otherwise. However, as LBC and Chullage explained to me, “nigga” can be used strategically following American rap legend and martyr igure Tupac’s acronym N.I.G.G.A. (Never Ignorant about Getting Goals Accomplished). For example, in a recent recording (2012), Chullage entitled one song “N.I.G.G.A.” and created a new connotation for the acronym, “Black folks Impose Self-Esteem on themselves in a Gated Ghetto.” More than a quirky acronym with a critical message, “nigga” is also a song featuring an empowered but conlicted protagonist. He [the nigga] is a product of migration and urbanization but he seems to know only the here and now. His life occurs in the neighborhood streets and Chullage depicts this life as a set of choices impacting positively and negatively the individual and the community. Still somewhat vague and open to interpretation, “nigga” does dovetail with Kriolu in the sense of labor history and a pragmatic politics. It is this spirit of provocation [i.e., “are you comparative in your assessments or are your thoughts ephemeral and provincial?”] that Chullage invoked the term in a challenge to my position and intention in the neighborhood of Arrentela. he stories of Karlos and Chullage demonstrate that Kriolu afords a variety of ways to interrupt “luso” discourses of inclusion. For the former, Kriolu is an empowering mode of diasporic subjectivity in a European milieu of postcoloniality. In other words, Karlos sees Kriolu as potentially one of the “new” European identities that has gained signiicant traction in youth and popular culture since the late 1950s (Hebdige 1987). Kriolu is thus a distinctive part of contemporary European cultural citizenship. Hip hop’s aggressive styles of ideological and commercial circulation are an excellent it for Karlos’ articulation of Kriolu. For Chullage, Kriolu is a strategic mode of provocation and persuasion towards a new Lisbon, which includes a shit in socio-geographical value. In essence, Chullage wants to attach Kriolu to institutions of culture, such as the Khapaz Association, and thus impose a Kriolu version of the “social neighborhood” on the Portuguese State as a recognized site of patrimony. I ofer a inal example to demonstrate a slightly diferent way some local hip hoppers expand “Kriolu” in the hopes of creating community and staking claims in contemporary Portugal. Kriolu as Flexible: Biggie, Darkface and Sagas Just as Kriolu is not synonymous with Kriol of Guinnea-Bissau (Havik 2007; Lang 1996: 54–5), Kriolu rap is by no means singular in practice. I met rappers Darkface and Biggy in July of 2007 outside of Darkface’s university classroom. Finals had begun and Darkface seemed happy to take a break and stroll around the conines of the Universidade Lusófono (Lusophone University). Biggy, at the time of our conversation a member of the unemployed, Pardue 167 was stressed about rising costs of living and the relative weak salaries in Portugal compared with the rest of the EU (European Union). Biggie reminded me: “You see, maybe Portugal is in the EU, but the PALOP aren’t. We’re just in Portugal.” Darkface interrupted and then calmly stated: You have to understand. I was born in São Tomé e Príncipe and grew up in Angola. Our friend here Biggy comes from a family of folks from GuineaBissau and Angola. We are creole, but we are also Portuguese. Better, we are more than Portuguese. What is great about rappers from PALOP is that we expand the inluence of the Portuguese language. We stretch hip hop tuga [term referring to hip hop made in Portugal, usually racialized as “white,” non-PALOP] and hip hop evolves. Yes, we are creole but that’s too limiting; we go beyond. We connect the PALOP reality, a not-quite-yet European membership, to the U.S., Brazil and wherever there is hip hop. In “expand,” “connect” and “go beyond” Darkface expresses what Homi Bhabha (1983) described as the “articulation” of the post-colonial subject, a discursive positioning that resists an “originality” of place and essence. “Creole” in the case of Darkface and Biggie is made manifest in an awareness of postcolonial mobility rather than language. Both PALOP rappers identify with Kriolu as a tactic of lexibility in their navigation among conventional citizenship markers (Portuguese, EU, etc.) aided by popular and diasporic culture (i.e., hip hop). Furthermore, in a publication by the Portuguese state agency ACIDI (High Commission on Immigration and Intercultural Dialogue), anthropologists Barbosa and Ramos used their interview with Sagas, a Kriolu rapper residing in Lisbon, as a launching pad to analyze general Cape Verdean experiences in Lisbon. Sagas’ comments strike a similar chord to those of Darkface and Biggie. “I use Crioulo not only for those who understand [the language] but also for the Portuguese. Crioulo brings a new scene to Portuguese hip hop. I put the two things together in a natural way but also with a speciic intention: to show, in a positive way, that this is Crioulo. I want them to understand my culture just as I understand theirs” (in Barbosa and Ramos 2009: 182). In a stance comparable to that of Chullage, Sagas creatively imposes Crioulo onto “the Portuguese,” a reaction to a similar pressure he has felt his entire life. Certainly, Sagas has had to “understand their” culture, why not they his? In their own ways, Sagas and Darkface articulate the extent to which Kriolu can interrupt Portuguese, linguistically and culturally, through the medium of rap. Conclusion Kriolu is a discourse rich with colonial history and contemporary pop cache. What is curious and what has taken center stage in this essay are the manners in which Kriolu, a practice seemingly exemplary of lusotropicalism and 168 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 relative privilege during and ater Portuguese colonialism, has become a vehicle for diference and discontent in the former metropole of Lisbon. Perhaps, as implied by Dávila, Almeida, and others, luso ideologies are particularly ambivalent and thus ripe for not only alternative but, in fact, oppositional interpretations. For their part, some local rappers have used Kriolu as an opportunity to narrate the ambiguities of globalization, migration, and diaspora. hey have provoked political relection among listeners, media outlets, and state agencies just as they remind a large swath of Lisbon’s residents of other places and times. Lisbon has become an important site where colonial and anti-colonial temporalities are emplaced. he rappers cited above contribute to an alternative history of Portugal, one uncomfortable with assimilation as a national treasure. Due to their keen awareness of location, rappers have emphasized the signiicance of migration experiences, residential daily life, and collective imaginations as an intervention into the “luso” mythology. Kriolu interrupts “luso” discourses because those categories emphasize mixture over diference and acculturation over the encounter. In this article I have underscored a distinction between interruption and disruption in that the former kind of intervention remains engaged within a low of talk, history, and power, while the latter refers to an external inluence. Kriolu and “creole,” more generally, are interruptions and their emergence and development build on relationships of intimacy and contingency within the processes of colonialism and indigenous locality. Kriolu rappers show us that creole is not an isolationist secession but it can be an interruption, the more or less sustained moment of impeding a grand narrative of “modernity” and “inclusion.” Kriolu rappers thus remind us that the role of social agency in identiication comes in the careful mediation of time and place. Kriolu interruptions take various forms and use a range of imaginative parameters to make their critical point of diference. Attentive to the difering collective imaginations of badiu blackness, new Europeans, Black Atlantics, and hip hop globalization, Kriolu rappers are conversant with but exceed “luso.” Notes 1. he term “lusotropicology” also occasionally appears in the literature as a translation of Freyre’s idea (Hammond 1967). Freyre himself prided himself on poetics employing diferent versions of “lusotropic” in his essays published during the 1950s. 2. he European Parliament and the Council of the European Union issued a decision (No. 1983/2006/EC) to designate the year of 2008 as the “European Year of Pardue 169 Intercultural Dialogue” (EYID) with the stated intention to foster a pragmatic sense of solidarity among individual and social groups for the common good of Europe. he Lisboa Mistura (“Lisbon Mixture”) project represents one example of interculturality. Lisboa Mistura was a celebratory book series (2006–2009) of textual and photographic essays, sponsored by the Lisbon Municipal government and published by the non-proit organization Sons da Lusofonia (“Lusophone Sounds”). It included a wide range of authors, scholars, and artists, who urge readers to participate in diversity with the hopes that Lisbon will realize its potential as a creative diverse metropolis and an exemplar of the contemporary European city. See also Christina McMahon’s book (2014), particularly chapter 2, which interprets critically the politics of dance and theater representation under the banner of “Lusofonia.” 3. While virtually all Cape Verdeans continue to speak Kriolu in Portugal, the spirit of Kriolu as oppositional diference introduced above certainly does not capture the totality of Cape Verdean identity formation and socio-political agency. Many Cape Verdeans, particularly those from aluent backgrounds connected to certain islands in the archipelago, embrace “lusofonia” just as many elite Cape Verdeans identiied with “lusotropicalism” in the mid-20th century. However, even among those who are invested in accommodation, Kriolu has gained greater recognition as a valuable distinction. In the world of pop music, for example, Cape Verdean performers such as Sara Tavares, Lura and Mayra Andrade now enjoy global success due in great part to their reapproximation with the Kriolu language and Cape Verdean musical repertoires (Arenas 2011). 4. Richard Price cites a letter written in 1928 from Jonkeer L.C. van Panhuys to Melville Herskovits as the irst documented use of the term “creolisation” to describe cultural change, in this case referring to Suriname Maroons (in Price 2010: 57). 5. For example, scholars such as Palmié (2002) and Gilroy (1993) have argued that “creole” and “Black Atlantic,” respectively, were central in the formation of modernity, once considered a purely European conceptualization. 6. Similarly, as Stephan Palmié (2006) has discussed, “creole” referred to “local identity” or indigenization not hybridity. 7. For example, Havik discusses the foundational role of local tangomãos and grumetes as remunerated rowers, sailors and interpreters in the articulation and capitalization of “creole” (2007: 46–52). 8. here are several variants of Kriolu from Cape Verde. his variability is signaled in the very spelling of the language—crioulo and Kriolu. I have opted for the latter throughout this text with the only exception being document citations. he reasons for this are regional. I spoke more with descendant of the island of Santiago, where the “k” spelling is preferred; this is also the rule as per ALUPEK (Uniied Alphabet for Cape Verdean Writing). here is also politics and aesthetic taste connected to the “k,” a matter I discuss below in the example of rapper Chullage. 9. For example, the Claridosos, literally the “Enlightened,” a literary group of elite Cape Verdeans particularly active from the 1930s to 1960s and predominantly from the Windward island of São Vicente and its city of Mindelo, claimed that Cape Verdean distinction was its lusotropical mixture. hey appealed to the Freyrian philosophy that had emboldened Brazil. Upon his visit to Cape Verde, Freyre wrote: “he irst cauldron [of lusotropicalism] was here on the island of Santiago, today so 170 Luso-Brazilian Review 52:2 negroid: a sign that, unlike what has successfully been happening in Brazil, this place has maintained the African elements of origin . . . hey had told me that I would ind a place reminiscent of the Brazilian northeast here in Cape Verde . . . however, this kinship appears to me to be vague and not accentuated” (Freyre 1953b: 290). he Claridosos published editorials of dismay and pondered Cape Verde’s place in the Luso scheme of things. See also Lopes 1956. 10. Interview with rapper Núcleo in 2008, translated from the Hip Hop Tuga website, access in May of 2010: http://www.h2tuga.net/artigos-h2t/entrevistas/2418-supanucleo-gab-e-dj-ride.html 11. For historical and ethnographic details on the Cape Verdean diaspora in the U.S., see Halter 1993, Britto 2002, Sieber 2005. For more on Cape Verdean diaspora in Europe (particularly France, Italy and Holland), Africa (particularly Senegal and São Tomé e Príncipe), and the Americas (particularly Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay), see Lobban and Halter 1988: 49–50, and Carling 2004. 12. For an artistic and insightful visual representation of youth in Pedreira, an improvised neighborhood, during the inal days before state demolition, see the documentary ilm “Outros Bairros” by Kiluanje Liberdade, Inês Gonçalves and Vasco Pimentel (1999) and a discussion of the ilm in Batalha (2004: 214–7). he cinematic trilogy from Pedro Costa related to the demolition of Fontaínhas improvised neighborhood, including “Bones” (1997), “In Vanda’s Room” (2000) and “Colossal Youth (2006), also provides insight into the everyday psyche of life under the wrecking ball. In particular, “Colossal Youth” focuses on Cape Verdean residents and the pressures of immigrant life in contemporary Lisbon. he case of Bairro Santo Filomena demonstrates that the process remains a touchstone of social tension and racialized stigma. For more details, see http://www.habita.info/2014/05/dossier-bairro-desanta-ilomena.html?spref=b Works Cited ACIDI (High Commission on Immigration and Intercultural Dialogue). 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