In high school, I was never into rap. To be into that, and to be white, was to be a poseur. I was into classic rock, early garage bands, grunge, “alternative” and some ska. I liked listening to contemporary music that people hadn’t heard of, like The Shins or the Greenhornes. Once they got more popular, I got less interested. I liked bands like the Velvet Underground that Rolling Stone magazine told me wannabe hipsters like myself should be into. I still like all that stuff, but I’ve broadened my horizons since then. I like rap and I’m tired of being defensive about it. I know, I know. I’m white, I’m middle class, I’m from a rural community. I can’t relate to the black experience. I can’t relate to the urban poverty experience. Without a doubt, these are subjects from which rap draws much of its inspiration. But to suggest that those who haven’t lived that life can’t connect to the music is to dimish the music’s power. The hopelessness, the anger and the joy that you hea