22447: (Hermantin)Miami-Herald-For at-risk teens, therapy with a beat (fwd)

[Bob Corbett <corbetre@webster.edu>]

From: leonie hermantin <lhermantin@hotmail.com>

Posted on Mon, Jun. 21, 2004



UP FRONT | LITTLE HAITI


For at-risk teens, therapy with a beat

At Youth Expressions in Little Haiti, at-risk teenagers use hip-hop to
channel their frustrations and structure their lives.

BY DAVID OVALLE

dovalle@herald.com


The teens gather every afternoon in the Little Haiti office of a nonprofit
program that pulses with hip-hop -- and with purpose.

Sabrina Abraham fiddles with a weathered stereo. A thick beat rumbles. And
now, she slides onto an imaginary stage.

''Cheated on me, hell no, boy, the hell with you, find another girl that can
deal with you, put up with you,'' Sabrina, 17, growls. `` 'Cause I'm an
independent woman, looking for a decent man, and if you are qualified let me
see you stand.''

Sabrina belongs to Youth Expressions, a Miami-Dade organization that uses
hip-hop culture as therapy and mentoring for at-risk teens from Little
Haiti.

Some come from broken homes or have spent time in jail. They channel their
frustrations through writing rhymes. And they learn how to produce, perform,
and market their music.

MEDIUM WITH MESSAGE

''Currently, it is the medium that is appreciated and is understood,'' said
director Michael Rosenfeld, who started the program four years ago. ``You
can be honest with it and creative with it and have fun with it.''

They perform at schools, neighborhood parties, local jam sessions and before
events such as The Source Hip-Hop Music Awards. Some songs are about HIV or
domestic abuse, others are tales of urban violence or are just party tracks.

The core group from Youth Expressions, 12 strong, also learns about the
music industry, marketing and promotions. They have worked behind the scenes
helping produce music videos shot in Miami, and promoting new albums.

But they also know that few become famous in hip-hop. They call it the
''notorious illusion'' -- talent does not always equal a record deal.

So, they plan careers and personal goals, perfect résumés and apply for
internships and summer jobs. Their grades are monitored. Each kid has a
thick binder filled with paperwork that tracks their progress.

''Hip-hop is not the only thing in the world,'' said Moises Simbert, 16, a
lanky member who wants to study engineering in college. ``You can't put all
your eggs in one basket.''

The program -- which has a long waiting list -- costs about $183,000 a year
to run and is paid for mostly through private foundations. Kids are selected
on a case-by-case basis, and pay nothing once they are admitted.

Once in, attendance is mandatory. The kids from the initial group are now
entering their final years of high school so success will be measured as
they apply for internships, summer jobs, and in the coming year, college,
Rosenfeld says.

Like any teens, the kids have their spats and dramas. But they have grown
close and take pride in the letters Y.E.

The program works because hip-hop has become so pervasive in mainstream
culture.

Dr. Don Elligan, a Chicago-based clinical psychologist who wrote the book
Rap Therapy, predicts that more organizations and counselors will use
hip-hop as the genre's appeal increases.

GREAT RESOURCE

''I found it to be very therapeutic as well as a great resource to help
people to start to find their own answers to some of their own challenges,''
Elligan said.

Rosenfeld realized in the late 1990s that the genre so often derided as
negative could also do good. He is a former gang member who went on to work
for a New York advertising agency that represented liquor brands such as
Seagrams and several music labels.

But he longed to do something more meaningful. By 1998, he landed a job
mentoring troubled teens in a Miami halfway house.

There, he played hip-hop artists such as the late Tupac Shakur as a way of
making the kids feel comfortable. Soon, Rosenfeld had the kids writing their
thoughts as hip-hop lyrics, as well as practicing graffiti art and dancing.

But hip-hop's effect really struck Rosenfeld when, through a rap, one
14-year-old boy admitted he has been arrested 40-plus times because his
mother sold her body on the streets to buy drugs.

''Everybody would talk about it and it killed his self-esteem,'' Rosenfeld
said. ``So what he would do is he would sell drugs and steal so he could
raise the money to buy the drugs to give to his mom and keep her in the
house.''

On a recent weekday, Rosenfeld returns from a weeklong humanitarian trip to
Haiti, and is eager to see how the kids spent their time.

Bright graffiti art adorns the walls. Backpacks, textbooks and CDs lay
strewn on the floor, near a tattered couch.

Mostly, the kids worked in a nearby studio on a new song called Superstar,
which has a harder edge than other songs they have written.

Calvin Early, 17, an exuberant Y.E. member, explains his lyrics.

''When I write stuff like that,'' he says with a grin, ``it's just me being
conceited. My whole verse is about me being cocky.''

Rosenfeld nods: ''Let's hear it.'' The bass-heavy beats thunders through the
room. Heads bob. Hands take to the air. Several Y.E. members spit their
verses.

STREET CREDIBILITY

Street credibility is important in hip-hop, and the kids strive to strike a
balance between hard-core and being perceived as corny and contrived. They
avoid the word ``positive.''

Afterward, they discuss their lyrics. Rosenfeld never criticizes their work
and encourages them to think about how their words resonate with listeners.

Lure listeners in, he says, and entertain them.

''Once you have them,'' Rosenfeld said, ``you have to inform them and lead
them to where you want to go.''

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