Dear Men: It’s Not Hip-Hop’s Body, It’s Nicki Minaj’s Body

Stop dad-splaining to Nicki Minaj about her own body.

Cover art for “Anaconda”
Cover art for “Anaconda” Young Money/Universal

There was a time, not long ago when I—shrouded in groupthink and male privilege—would have reacted to the promo cover art for Nicki Minaj’s latest single, “Anaconda,” in pretty much the same vein as’s founder and CEO, Chuck Creekmur.

His response to Minaj—who poses for her cover photo with legs agape, backside to the front and looking like a video-vixened goddess of all that is right in the world—was a hypocritical “Nicki, you don’t have to do this (even though I low-key like it)” letter.

Creekmur, the venerable hip-hop journalism juggernaut, employed the ho-hum he-man tactic too often used in attempts to police the respectability of women—specifically black women—and how they choose to showcase their bodies and assert their sexuality.

He tried, sadly, to be daddy and dzaddy at the same time, writing this:

So, when I peeped the artwork for your latest single, I wasn’t even shocked, I was just disappointed. The song: ‘Anaconda.’ The art: your booty in a thong. As a man, I can appreciate the virtues of your perfect posterior. The dad guy is not a happy camper, particularly now that his lil’ girl is transitioning into a young lady. Now, the most popular, current Black female rapper starts overtly pushing her hyper-sexualized image again? Just my luck.

Jesus, please be a scantily clad veil of misogynoir.

Ebony’s Jamilah Lemieux deftly addressed the issue in her own letter, titled “Nicki Minaj’s Butt Is Not Your Daughter’s Problem,” earlier this week, summing up the eye roll-that-can’t-be-helped after Creekmur’s 1,100-word finger wag about Minaj’s posterior while carrying a history of ignoring far more serious celebrity grievances. Lemieux, as they say in the church, made it plain.

Men—and, if we’re honest, a good number of women—have a problematic tendency to simultaneously admire and admonish overt celebration of the black female body. But in this context, agency doesn’t go both ways. Women own their bodies, end of story. We, as men, don’t. 

And Creekmur’s attempt to say otherwise is as bad as the treatment Rihanna endured after wearing her stellar Swarvorski-crystaled gown to the CFDA Awards earlier this year. The lazy, rash slut-shaming was deafening—with both men and women appointing themselves as her judges just because her party dress was slightly sheer.

But I’m guessing they missed this stanza from Maya Angelou’s legendary “Still I Rise”: 

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs? 

It doesn’t matter, though. You know why? Because this isn’t about the women—or the bodies—being slandered, but the haughty privilege of those perpetuating the slander. It’s about those who would have us believe that their attempts at moralizing are really pleas to make the world a better, less sexed-up, more upright place. This is them—they say—doing their part in cleaning up the hypersexualized black female image.

This is them playing Captain Save-a-Hoe.