Kendrick Lamar’s Super Bowl halftime show has sparked widespread debate. Some found it entertaining and uplifting, while others dismissed it as boring and lackluster. What follows is not a critique of the performance itself but an exploration of how we engage with each other when we disagree. Before diving into that, I want to examine what may be the most significant event tied to this discourse: Serena Williams Crip Walking to the beat of They Not Like Us—the dance seen around the American street.
Who holds the right to execute the Crip Walk?
While my question was initially prompted by Serena’s presence at the Super Bowl halftime show, my focus extends beyond her as an individual. I clarify this in hopes of avoiding the predictable discourse surrounding the calculated irony of a Williams sister executing a dance she was once criticized for at Wimbledon—only to later perform it on the grandest stage of American sports, within a “blackout” production, all while aiding Kendrick in his ongoing cultural sparring with Drake.
I fully recognize the layers of symbolism at play. My intent is not to reiterate what is already circulating within Black public discourse, but to push the conversation toward broader implications beyond the obvious.
[Insert: duhhhhhhhhhh] Kendrick already said “better not speak on Serena.”
It shouldn’t be that peripheral observations—simple, detached analyses—are immediately read as aligning with the ideological posture of those seeking proximity to power, or worse, as tacit endorsements of assimilationist frameworks.
Wop Wop Wop Wop Wop
Undoubtedly, this is a significant moment for the Crips. After all, what cultural formation wouldn’t want its signature movement showcased on one of America’s grandest stages—especially when framed not through the lens of criminality but as an aesthetic and political gesture embedded within a broader Black revolutionary mosaic?
Here, the Crip Walk is not merely a dance but a deliberate act of reclamation, woven into a visual and sonic mosaic designed to stomp on, deconstruct, and dismantle the hegemonic structures of Whiteness.
We must also consider the very real possibility that, given the deep reverence California’s Bloods and Crips have for Kendrick, he may have given them some degree of forewarning—if not outright approval—regarding the intent behind the performance. Perhaps, in the grand scheme, it was never an issue to begin with, given that no prominent voices from gang culture publicly objected to the Wimbledon dance. Maybe the notion that the Crip Walk remains the exclusive property of the Crips is itself an outdated premise, a relic of a past where cultural markers were more rigidly policed. After all, I’m edging into old-head territory. What do I really know?
Having navigated all these considerations, I’m left wondering: Has the Crip Walk now reached a point where anyone, regardless of background, can perform it on a major stage without controversy? If not, then its usage must be governed by conditions—conditions that, in essence, form the crux of my question. It’s possible that we collectively accepted Serena’s use of it without scrutiny, given her place on the Mount Rushmore of Black American giants. That’s fine. We have the cultural prerogative to make such allowances. But where, if anywhere, do we draw the line? At what point does someone’s invocation of the Crip Walk become impermissible precisely because of what the dance is evolving into? I say evolving because, despite its longstanding presence in popular culture, this singular moment may be the one that cements it as the definitive choreographic emblem of the revolution.
I recognize the frustration these reflections might provoke, even though I have been deliberate in my wording. Some would have preferred a piece with a more celebratory tone, a triumphant declaration rather than an interrogation. But let’s be honest—those same individuals wouldn’t have engaged with this at all unless it was addressing something beyond the obvious, something that wasn’t already being dissected across every other platform. After all, what would be the point of restating what has already been articulated, often with far greater eloquence, by those more adept at distilling the cultural weight of this moment? Given that reality, I had two choices: offer a perspective that pushes the conversation in a different direction or acknowledge that I had nothing new to contribute and humbly sit this one out.
Be humble (hol’ up, hol’ up)
Sit down (hol’ up, hol’ up, lil’ hol’ up, lil’)
I can’t sit this one out just yet. I refuse to put the pen down without addressing what has become both an explosive issue and a point of deep division—the grading of the halftime show itself. In a landscape where affiliations dictate reception, expressing anything short of unqualified praise is a precarious endeavor. To suggest that the performance was merely mid rather than transcendent, necessary, or a prophetic intervention for America in its current state is to invite the wrath of cultural critics and Afro-futurist visionaries alike. Social media, in its relentless adjudication of artistic and political legitimacy, has little patience for nuance. Dissenters risk being dragged as if they had personally sabotaged the revolution.
Why must it be this way?
Rather than offering a direct assessment of the Super Bowl halftime show, let me instead analyze the responses to the responses—how the discourse itself has unfolded. For those who refuse to merely toe the line but instead take it upon themselves to dismantle dissenting perspectives, even when those perspectives come from individuals equally committed to the eradication of systemic racism, I propose a counterweight.
Every revolution is undergirded by intricate philosophies and rhetorical frameworks that rarely trickle down to the ground level where upheaval—the actual dismantling of societal structures and governing regimes—takes place. What reaches the street are not dense theoretical treatises but sharply honed slogans and chants, phrases distilled for mass consumption. These words do not contain the totality of revolutionary thought, but they serve as its entry point, gesturing toward deeper ideological commitments while remaining accessible to all.
The Super Bowl halftime show functioned as the unveiling of the philosophical architecture that the Black street deems necessary for revolution. The chant—”They Not Like Us”—is the crystallized expression of that framework, a linguistic cipher designed to encapsulate complexities that might otherwise remain inaccessible. It is not merely a lyric but a summation, a battle cry standing in for the essays, the arguments, the historical reckonings that have led to this moment.
It’s entirely reasonable not to fully grasp or resonate with everything that unfolded during the show. In fact, I suspect that the deepest understanding of its symbolism is largely confined to the most dedicated Kendrick fans. And how many of those do you actually know?
We’ve reached a point where Kendrick commands universal respect—not necessarily in the sense that everyone listens to him, but in that, we acknowledge the depth of his artistry. When he constructs something, we know it operates on multiple levels, layered with sophistication and meaning that often requires time and attention to unpack. Perhaps this is precisely why the show unfolded as it did. It wasn’t meant for passive spectators or for those who require overt spectacle to recognize significance. It was calibrated for those already attuned to his method, his language, his way of embedding intricate messages within seemingly simple presentations.
A more extravagant production might have only muddled the intent. When dealing with an artist whose work is already a labyrinth of symbolism, adding unnecessary layers could have risked obscuring rather than illuminating. Maybe, in keeping things relatively restrained—at least by Super Bowl standards—he ensured that his real audience, the ones fluent in his artistry, could receive the message in its most decipherable form.
I’m not a Kendrick fan. I’m not fluent regarding his artistry. But I understood the general meaning. I had no interest in peeling back the layers, and frankly, most people don’t have the time—or the inclination—to do so. At the same time, I recognize that most viewers weren’t expecting that kind of halftime show. It wasn’t what the Super Bowl audience is primed for.
By traditional metrics, I wouldn’t categorize it as an entertaining performance, at least not in the way these spectacles are typically expected to function. There were moments that carried an undeniable energy—most notably the previously mentioned Crip Walk—but overall, it didn’t adhere to the standard playbook of high-octane, broad-appeal halftime entertainment. And while ‘high-octane’ may be subjective, ‘broad appeal’ is a more measurable standard—one that even Dr. Dre’s session arguably did not meet in the conventional sense. His performance functioned less as a universally engaging spectacle and more as a moment of cultural exposure, offering audiences a glimpse into a world they might not otherwise encounter.
Instead, Kendrick’s session was something else entirely: a performance that prioritized messaging over mass appeal, a statement piece delivered on the most mainstream of stages, but not necessarily for the mainstream. Yet, it exposed the mainstream to other streams of expression and messaging.
So, sort of the same idea behind Dre’s selection?
To deny space for differing perspectives is to replicate the very exclusion that has historically been imposed upon us—to strip away the right to contribute to discourse as respected participants. We often claim to champion the freedom of expression, to insist that everyone deserves the same latitude to voice their thoughts as we do. But that principle encounters real friction when we are required to sit with perspectives that unsettle us.
Worse still, the moment someone deviates from the prevailing sentiment, we revoke their Black card. Suddenly, we become the arbiters of authenticity, deciding who is and isn’t intellectually capable of engaging in the conversation. The irony is glaring: the same mechanisms that have long been weaponized against us—dismissal, exclusion, the denial of full participation in discourse—become tools we wield against each other. At some point, we must ask ourselves: are we simply replicating the very structures we claim to resist?
Are we, in effect, replicating the very structure we critique—just on a microcosmic scale? Have we, in our quest for a liberated discourse, constructed our own insular orthodoxy where deviation is met with exile?
Are we enforcing the same structures, in a microcosmic sense, within the intimate spaces of our own group?
What we communicate—whether intentionally or not—is that within our own ranks, there is no space for disagreement. As much as this is often framed as the necessary mode of collective operation, it stands in tension with one of our fundamental messages to the powers that be: that difference exists, and that difference is not inherently wrong.
Historically, we have insisted that plurality does not fracture us—that we can exist as a people with divergent perspectives, even on matters as crucial as how a message is articulated.
Cue the instrumental to Like That.