Like many in Cambridge, I proudly define myself as a feminist and probably (to some of my peers’ dismay) bring this topic into conversation on a daily basis. But I have an ostensibly un-feminist confession to make: I love rap and hip-hop. This is no trivial ‘guilty pleasure’ that I can laugh off, but an insatiable addiction and genuine artistic appreciation for the genre. Some would say that the misogynistic elements of rap should put me off, at least until it cleans up its act; but I cannot help but be enticed by the rebellious spirit of rap.

My second confession is that I’ve gotten into the habit of intentionally playing Ludacris’s ‘Move Bitch’ as I cycle around Cambridge, as an attempt to temper my bubbling frustration at the ever-lingering tourists. My normal attitude towards the word ‘bitch’ is one of fervent disapproval because it is routinely used to dehumanise women and to strengthen male power. So why do I suddenly find it acceptable where music is concerned?

Don’t get me wrong, I acknowledge that rap music is partially responsible for intensifying sexist ‘lad culture’ by making derogatory phrases commonplace and acceptable. I’m also disgusted by the portrayal of women in rap music videos – an invariable arrangement of scantily clad women who are the (often literal) objects of sexual desire for the pleasure of one man.

However, if you approach rap and hip hop considering its origins and sustained importance as a black art form, it can be viewed as a symbol of rebellion against oppression and discrimination. This subliminal sentiment is one with which women can associate, if we hang on through the immediate and abrasive chauvinism of the lyrics. It could just be that I am Cambridge’s worst feminist; but, there is something empowering about the passionate determination of the rap mentality.

If we momentarily ignore the misogyny and illicit behaviour associated with rap’s bad reputation, there’s a lot to be said for its social value. For all its aggression, it is a heartfelt and honest form of expression. Through his wryly debauched lyrics, Eminem welcomes us into the depths of his neurosis; Jay-Z opens up his painful ‘rags to riches’ story telling us, “I’m from the school of hard knocks”; Notorious dedicates his album to the “teachers that said I’d never amount to nothin’’’. Good rappers speak about their personal experience of overcoming human suffering in a shockingly honest and direct way, which creates a profound intimacy between listener and rapper.

At the same time, rap can offer an important critique of our society. Kendrick Lamar denounces the way our culture glamorises alcoholism – the mindless obsession that many people have with drinking “a pool full of liquor”. Wu-Tang Clan lament the way “cash rules everything around me,” conveying a sense of disillusionment with the corruption in society.

We could even say, if we’re being generous, that the sexism found in hip-hop reflects and parodies the attitudes of our patriarchal society. Maybe I am trying to find socially responsible reasons for my obsession in order to quell my feminist guilt, but the fact remains that hip-hop is more than just a bit of fun; the genre cannot be denounced as wholly sexist. There is emotional and philosophical depth behind its offensive language.

Admittedly, hip-hop and rap do suffer from being incredibly testosterone-fuelled fields. They seem to me to be comprised mainly of men trying to boost their own egos in order to overcompensate for deep insecurities about their masculinity, which has some pretty problematic results. And even where we do find a few women in this industry, like Nicki Minaj and Iggy Azalea, the content of their songs and music videos, which both focus on their physical appearance, encourages us to take them less seriously as artists. Then again, consumers also have a patronising tendency to view female rap artists as malleable marionettes controlled by the music industry, rather than skilled artists with creative freedom. This hinders the artists careers further.

Rather than dismissing rap as an irredeemable loss for the feminist cause, we need to encourage more abundant and more favourable female representation in rap music. It is a largely untapped platform for feminist discourse, but it could be a great one. For this women must be able to use rap music to candidly express their own emotions and social comments in the way men do and male rappers must be deterred from writing lyrics that degrade women.

The music industry is a powerful one. If misogynist attitudes that rap regularly dishes were tempered, it could alter the perceptions of gender amongst a generation thanks to rap’s current monopoly over popular culture and thus over social attitudes, particularly amongst the impressionable young.

Undeniably, a massive reason behind my obsession with rap is its revolutionary, ‘Fuck the police’, anti-establishment spirit, which will always appeal to the unfairly underrepresented of any generation, and this includes women.

Granted, it is often disgustingly violent and repressive towards women in ways one cannot ignore. Rap was never meant to slot into that neat space in your Dad’s record collection right next to Simon & Garfunkel; it was meant to be offensive and controversial. Rap speaks its mind frankly and then it gets right back up on its feet when it’s criticised for ‘fighting the power’. These are powerful, and familiar, tactics. There may be more of a feminist streak in rap than meets the eye.