Since its release in late January, Don Toliver’s newest album “OCTANE” has topped my Spotify queue. I walk to class with “ATM” blasting in my AirPods and 808 basslines thumping in my ears. 

Among many favorites, “Body” circulates through my headphones and TikTok feed alike; I feel energized by the catchy tune and hard-hitting beats. Yet, I find myself hesitant to reproduce Toliver’s lyrics — lines such as “Baby, come here, I’ma grip on your body” or “Give me like ten of them, oh (Body).” 

Toliver’s phrases, however, fall relatively tame to more provocative language found in songs by artists such as Mike Sherm or Playboi Carti. 

The passive construction employed by many rap songs teaches listeners a basic but vital grammar lesson: Women are the objects of sex, rather than the subjects. In other words, sex is an act done to them, rather than with them. 

This narrative reinforces casual misogyny and sexual objectification. To these artists, women become of value when they are sexually available; they become trophies used to boost status. Male rappers can thus commercialize women’s appearances, attempt to assert hypermasculine values and elevate their own material status. 

The problem with mainstream rap songs that cater to these ideas is not a matter of discussing sex provocatively; in fact, many artists, even those beyond the realm of rap, advertise their sexuality and desire to promote sex positivity. But when women lack agency in lyrics, they often lack it in real life as well. 

Ever since I was introduced to the style of hip-hop dance, hip-hop and rap music have been focal to my music taste. I stretch and warm up to artists such as The Notorious B.I.G. or Dr. Dre. The heavy snare drum and synthesizer sounds are more than rhythms; they translate into movement I can replicate in my head and on stage. 

But as someone who listens to mainstream hip hop and rap, I am forced to reconcile with the repercussions of supporting artists who perpetuate this script. 

Thankfully, Black female rappers are flipping the narrative by flaunting their sexuality and unapologetically forefronting their desires within their music. Older musicians such as Salt-N-Pepa and Missy Elliott established a foundation for empowerment and bodily agency, while newer artists such as Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion openly express their sexual preferences in songs such as “WAP.” 

Beyond their lyrics, these artists’ songs are containers for memories of dance combinations and recitals. Whether it’s Elliott’s “Get Ur Freak On” or “Megan’s Piano” playing, I am reminded that a groove is always within reach.

As a broader cultural, political and social movement, hip-hop feminism seeks to use hip-hop as a site for challenging systems of exploitation, according to a 2013 essay titled “The Stage Hip-Hop Feminism Built: A New Directions Essay,” published by the University of Chicago. Still, the question of how to combat popular hip-hop and rap artists who use objectifying language seems daunting for an individual consumer. 

Sexual objectification is not singular to rap and hip-hop music. Recognizing that this phenomenon is symptomatic of wider industry norms and practices, as well as a historical echo of the pathologizing of Black female sexuality, is the first step toward progress. 

I love mainstream rap and hip-hop for the energy and movement it brings out in listeners. And not every hip-hop or rap artist succumbs to the demoralizing language pattern described above. At the same time, we should not gloss over sexually objectifying language in favor of a catchy tune. 

As I turn away from rap artists who conform to this unspoken standard, I sacrifice a small piece of myself that secretly enjoys the hype and upbeat nature of these songs. 

Yet, while these artists fade from my Spotify playlists, I find comfort in new sources — artists such as BIA or Doechii who empower bodily agency. In the same way that fashion evolves to accommodate new trends, my music taste abandons old artists in favor of new ones.  

While removed from my queue, “Body” continues to play on my TikTok feed behind videos applying dancer and creator Jaylen Pea’s choreography. In these dances, users take Toliver’s lyrics and make them their own by claiming sensual movement.  

Perhaps, then, there is a way to reshape the narrative with mainstream hip hop and rap beyond the lyrics set before us. Music does not exist in a silo; people listen to it to feel something, react to it and move to it. 

My younger self unironically listened to artists such as Gunna and Lil Uzi Vert. She shrivels now as a new, more mature self emerges. Yet, she is also relieved to find that newer self reclaiming mainstream rap — in the form of movement.

Just as with music, the dancing doesn’t stop; it only adapts. 

“Jam Journal” is a rotating column featuring a new Daily Trojan editor in each installment commenting on the music most important to them. Miranda Huang is a Magazine Editor at the Daily Trojan.