KQED's Pendarvis Harshaw Talks with SF State Students About Going Dumb
The end of Fall term in Humanities 340: Bay Area Culture was all about “going dumb.”
But first, the class had to get smart about the Hyphy Movement, a colorful mid-2000s era of “uptempo-bass-heavy music … big-ass sunglasses (stunna shades) … exuberant dancing, extravagant slang”, turf dancing, “candy-painted cars” (Harshaw), sideshows and so much more.
Hyphy, slang for hyperactive, was born in Oakland, CA and fueled by trauma. It also gave the generation a creative and energetic outlet for their pain.
Bay Area born writer, director, journalist and host of KQED’s dynamic podcast, Rightnowish, Pendarvis Harshaw, came to class on November 29, 2023 to talk about his recent four-part podcast series, Hyphy Kids Got Trauma. Harshaw took questions and commentary from an enthusiastic room of students who spent the prior three weeks delving into the podcast while finding their own connections with the movement.
Some student feedback from the experience:
“…a release of generational trauma through music, dances, cars and sideshows, clothing, everything … it was fueled by a love for Oakland and the people that were lost in its violence.”
“Harshaw actually showing up and taking over the lecture for that Wednesday was genuinely gripping, and his insight on the Hyphy Movement and appropriation of Black culture was genuinely insightful.”
“(Pendarvis Harshaw) is so integral, one of the biggest and realistically obtainable links we (have) to the hyphy movement.”
“Harshaw’s interpretation and dissection of the Hyphy Movement made me realize how misunderstood Oakland and the Hyphy Movement are and have been. Yes, it is about going dumb, but it is more about taking your power back.”
“It amazes me that … youth found a positive outlet for expression all on their own, and turned their trauma into art.”
“The legacy left behind by the hyphy movement and the titans that represented it are still seen and felt until this very day.”
***
Hyphy kids got trauma. So do the kids of this generation, and they need creative and energetic and, dare I say, academic outlets to express their pain. They also need to be seen and heard and validated, and given the space and place to turn their unique trauma into art.
Bay Area Culture - Silicon Valley: An Introduction
Looking or even thinking about Silicon Valley today, it’s difficult to imagine the area’s industry was first based on agriculture. With the establishment of Mission Santa Clara and Mission San Jose in the late 1700s, Spanish fathers planted orchards of peaches, plums, apricots, apples, pears, figs and vines that thrived in the land’s rich soil and the region’s temperate climate. The orchards bore so much fruit that the area became known as the Valley of Heart’s Delight.
The region’s gold was in fruit, and during the Gold Rush era as people flooded into a San Francisco where fresh produce was a scarcity, a single apple imported into the city sold for a dollar. Think about it this way: $1 in 1850 is equivalent in purchasing power to about $39 today. 25 apples in 1850 San Francisco cost around the same as an 🍎 iPhone 15 in 2024. Once the Transcontinental Railroad was complete (1869), fruits were preserved and transported cross-country.
Millions of fruit trees spanning 100,000 acres continued bearing fruit until WWII. In Passing Farms, Enduring Values: California’s Santa Clara Valley, Yvonne Jacobson explains,
The war changed everything. It brought thousands of military personnel to the West Coast on the way to the Pacific and helped speed the country’s westward movement of population. After the war, Santa Clara County led the state with an increase in population at a rate double the growth of California itself.
In place of orchards came single family homes, shopping centers and the comforts of suburban living after wartime rationing. There was also space for fresh ideas nurtured by Stanford University and a desire to build and create, innovate and connect. Silicon Valley, named after the shift from Germanium to Silicon in the creation of transistors and chips, became the site for a technological, counter-cultural gold rush. The rest is history – and the future.
Oakland’s Sideshows and Generational Burnout
In a recent interview by Asé Mora of Xpress Magazine, I was asked to discuss the history of sideshows and what they used to mean to the Oakland, CA community versus what they’ve turned into today (2025). Why me? I included some history of sideshows back in 2023-2024 when I taught a course at San Francisco State University called Bay Area Culture. A segment focused on Oakland and the Hyphy Movement, dipping back to the 1990s (1980s for early “low and slow” sideshows) before landing at the height of the Hyphy Movement in the early-mid 2000s.
I have an academic interest in the impact of trauma on different generations and the artistic ways those generations express their trauma (we all need to get that toxic sh*t out, yes?). KQED journalist Pendarvis Harshaw draws a clear connection between generational trauma and the Hyphy Movement in episode 1 of his brilliant 4-part podcast series, Hyphy Kids Got Trauma (2023),
We’re talking about a generation of kids who were born into the crack-cocaine induced era of the War on Drugs and raised by people who saw Civil Rights leaders slain.
This generation of Black youth coming of age in Oakland, CA in the early-mid 2000s turned to music and dance, colorful slang and fashion, and they turned to sideshows as a way to express themselves and, well… get that toxic sh*t out.
I’m also interested in instances where and how countercultural movements become part of culture. Journalist Abraham Woodliff touches on this in his piece, “Sideshows Are Here to Stay So Stop Complaining” (2022),
If you can’t handle sideshows, you can’t handle life in the Bay Area … If you live in the Bay Area, but you’re from somewhere else, especially if you’re highly educated with a graduate degree, just understand you made the choice to be here … It started here … and it’s still happening. You’re not gonna stop that shit.
Yes: The sideshows of today are different from the sideshows of the 1980s, the 1990s, the 2000s and even right before the pandemic. Each generation is also different and comes to the table or street with different traumas and different means of expression. Something that’s the same is generational burnout and the need to get that toxic sh*t out. Something else that’s the same is the generations of individuals who cross their arms and shake their heads as they scrutinize younger generations without trying to understand.
I have another interest: origin stories. What’s the root cause(s) of what’s happening in the moment?
Do I think every person out there spinning rims and doing donuts is consciously – or even subconsciously – expressing the trauma of their generation? Hell no -ish. Some people just want to be a sideshow to the sideshow and maybe that’s some of what we’re seeing today, but isn’t this a way of letting off steam? What was Gen Z born into and what is Gen Alpha being born into? There’s plenty to rebel against today and we have a generation of youth looking to shut things down (streets, bridges, voices, laws, oppressions, ideologies) in constructive and destructive ways. Maybe we oughta turn our focus to scrutinizing the origin stories of those voices, laws, oppressions and ideologies the current generation is trying to shut down.
***
Is there something to be said about people coming from outside Oakland – from San Jose and beyond – to host and participate in sideshows without any ties or understanding of their cultural significance?
Admittedly, I don’t feel authoritative enough to offer much commentary on what’s happening today, as I only have recent media scrutiny to go on. A litany of outlets reported on the August 24th 2AM till dawn sideshow in North Oakland that boasted some 500 people, 200 cars, illegal fireworks and a vehicle set on fire. Oakland Mayor Barbara Lee has her work cut out for her.
What I will say about the so-called “outsiders” is this: People have been complaining since the late-70s/early-80s about the “bridge and tunnel crowd” coming into the City or Oakland on weekends and diluting/disrupting local scenes before returning to the ‘burbs. Whether it’s in the clubs or on the streets, this is nothing new. And can you blame them?
There’s something iconic about hosting or being part of a sideshow in Oakland and with social media and apps for easy organizing, word can get out on a dime. If you’re into sideshows or want to check one out and you hear about one coming together in Walnut Creek, one in Fremont, one in Newark and one in Oakland, which one are you driving to?
Even if today’s sideshows are a far cry from the original 1980s pop-ups in East Oakland parking lots, I don’t think it’s fair to say people who are participating today aren’t doing so for any cultural reasons if we’re defining culture as the collective values, beliefs and practices of a group. Some people are more aware than others of the history and pride and original cultural significance of Oakland’s sideshows, but I’d argue everyone involved is a participant in creating culture, for better or for worse. Sandhya Dirks captures it well in her 2018 article, “Spinning Rims, Spinning Cars: The History of the Oakland Sideshow”,
The definition of just what makes a sideshow is constantly in flux. Every generation has its own version, just like every sideshow has people who say it is either a criminal act or a space for the creation of culture. Maybe, just maybe, there is a little bit of both, hanging out at the sideshow.
I think Dirks’ take holds true today.
***
What does the media get wrong about sideshows?
Nothing and everything. Sideshows can be dangerous and destructive and violent, but they aren’t always and exclusively that. They can be social and celebratory and a mode of self-expression, but they aren’t always and exclusively that. They can be a form of activism and resistance against the dominant monoculture, but they aren’t always and exclusively that. They can be a generation of young people saying F-you to a local law that exists in a world that seems more lawless by the day, but they aren’t always and exclusively that, either. I guess that’s why it’s important to diversify your media sources when trying to understand what’s happening in the world and then realize you still don’t have the whole story.
Perhaps one of the media outlets can do a piece on how the microcosm of sideshow violence reflects the broader patterns of hostility and aggression present throughout society.
Criminal acts don’t arise in a vacuum, and neither does culture. People need to express themselves – their joys and traumas – and it’s both healthy and human to do so. It’s just not always convenient or accepted, understood or welcome.
***
To close out this interview, Mora asked me to *briefly* explain the history of sideshows.
I think it’s fair to say the definition of what makes a sideshow a sideshow has changed one generation to the next. It’s easier to define in retrospect, but still difficult to accomplish in a line or two or even a page. I’ll give it a shot.
In the 1980s, they began in East Oakland parking lots and were like informal car shows where you could show off your custom cars and rims and socialize with others who shared your pride and enthusiasm. They also served as a place to share music and fashion innovations and create culture within Oakland’s Black community.
In the late 1980s going into the 1990s they were all of the above, but people also leaned into modifying their cars so they could do tricks (e.g., donuts, burnouts). With this, sideshows transformed into something faster and were dubbed more dangerous. This is when Oakland police took notice, as Richie Rich says in his song, “Side Show” (1990),
Police come through on a fluke and try to break it
Up like that with a riot hat
You're gonna need more than a billy club and a gat
To stop the side show, officer, …
Cause the brothers from the O are gonna keep on ridin'
Yolkin’, hittin’ tight ones, straight sidin’ …
In the 2000s they were all of the above but, and I repeat, as Oakland-raised journalist Pendarvis Harshaw states,
We’re talking about a generation of kids who were born into the crack-cocaine induced era of the War on Drugs and raised by people who saw Civil Rights leaders slain.
Add sideshows to a generation of kids trying to find ways to get that toxic sh*t out, it’s no wonder sideshows became faster, bigger, louder and more rebellious and to politicians and police, more dangerous and chaotic. By then, sideshows were also ingrained in Oakland’s history and culture and so they weren’t going anywhere.
I'm not sure I'm able to say what sideshows are today, as it's difficult to define a generation or culture while it’s still coming of age, so any attempt to label it is unrewarding. I’d argue it’s better to try and define such things in retrospect, so maybe ask me in a decade or so.
However, I will say they this: I think sideshows are a generational mode of self-expression influenced by greater society, so perhaps look to what’s happening in mainstream society to understand why smaller communities and subcultures are behaving as they are.
You can read Asé Mora’s article, “Cultural Crossroads”, at https://xpressmagazine.org/27351/all/policing-culture/
Shakespeare Journeys Inside San Quentin Prison
Three years ago, I went to the Sundance Film Festival and attended a showing of director Hank Rogerson’s documentary, Shakespeare Behind Bars. It chronicles a group of twenty male inmates who formed a Shakespeare troupe within the walls of a minimum-medium security state prison in Kentucky. The troupe puts on a production of The Tempest and addresses such matters as forgiveness and transformation. The affiliations between the inmates, the reasons why they spend their time behind bars, and the subject matter of the play make sense. The documentary does a wonderful job of addressing these affiliations without imposing judgment and without not imposing judgment. In the end, the audience is left with a sort of aerial feeling. Floating, not grounded, enamoured by its charm, yet o’erthrown by the indulgence of pardoning judgment for art’s sake.
Recently, I went to San Quentin Prison (renamed San Quentin Rehabilitation Center in 2023 per Governor Gavin Newsom) and attended the only showing of director Suraya Susana Keating’s production of Much Ado About Nothing. Shakespeare’s romantic and playful comedy carries minimal darkness and deception with the incorporation of a scheming bastard, and even this element is indubitably o’erthrown by the play’s light, witty, romantic and comedic nature. A troupe of eleven incarcerated persons are joined by Keating, ‘Michelle’, and Jane Deely (the latter two joined the troupe only months before) who portray the female roles of Beatrice, Hero and Margaret. This project came together as the result of Leslie and Robert Currier of the Marin Shakespeare Company and their Drama Program at San Quentin; Steve Emrick, Director of Arts in Corrections (AIC); Professor Judy Breen (my grad school Shakespeare professor), and the ongoing effort of the William James Association’s thirty-year commitment to the revival and survival of The Prison Arts Project. The mission of the William James Association is to “promote work service in the arts, environment, education, and community development.”
The Prison Arts Project peaked around eight years ago, enlisting a full force of creative minds and talent to deliver theatre, creative writing, music, painting and other visual arts programs to thirty-three California institutions in an attempt to bring the magic of the arts to, and make a difference in the lives of, incarcerated men and women. In 2003, California’s projected $14 billion budget crisis slashed a bevy of state services and programs including funding for the Prison Arts Project, which has only survived the past five years thanks to private foundations and individual funding.
So why even have such a program? Why is it important on this day at San Quentin Prison and for these eleven men behind bars? According to some studies, ninety percent of California State incarcerated persons will be released into the community again. Those involved in the Prison Arts Project “have 75% fewer disciplinary actions and a recidivism rate that is 27% lower than the general prison population.” These numbers are impressive, and after listening to the actors discuss their experiences with this program, with this play and with one another, I would tend to agree that the AIC program is gloriously beneficial for both inmates and the community as a whole.
So what of the play? The play’s the thing, right? After seven months of preparation, weekly classes and for some of these actors, hundreds of hours of line work while walking the yard, these men pulled together a solid and at times great full-length production of Much Ado About Nothing, staged in the Prison Chapel. It and they are deserving of our accolades. Keating, an actress for the past ten years and registered drama therapist for the past six, has worked in the prison system since 2001, starting her work in San Quentin in 2006. Last year, Keating helped her actors deliver a one-hour production of Macbeth. John O. Neblett, who played King Duncan in Macbeth and Benedick in this year’s production of Much Ado explains,
Last year’s production of Macbeth was truncated so much that it was really more a presentation of Shakespeare. That’s what got the other guys to sign up. It’s the fact that we did that job, and they’re like, 'We want to do that!’ It was a building (block) for us. When we connect with values in a negative way, bad things happen. Are all these things happening in Shakespeare’s time still relevant today? Well, they’re relevant for us to look at and see that in some cases, there were negative values.
Neblett goes on to relate his thoughts to a recent case involving a woman in Richmond, CA who was attacked. Two men committed an act of revenge on the perpetrator and now have murder raps. He then acknowledges their value system is warped, and they are now wracked with consequences for their actions.
John O. Neblett is 44 years old. He obtained his AA degree in 1988 while incarcerated in Salinas, CA and he looks forward to achieving his BA in English after he paroles. He has studied all of Shakespeare’s sonnets; reads Marlowe and Milton; writes his own poetry and would someday like to learn how to play the lute. John pled guilty to a count of 2nd degree murder over two decades ago. In consequence, he is sentenced to a life behind bars.
Michael B. Willis, who stands an estimated 5’5” on a good day, plays the constable, Dogberry, in this production. In preparing for his role, Willis first looked without in order to find the character within.
I realized (through watching) Peter Sellers and all these other comedians and even someone like Columbo that Dogberry is a prototype. Once I figured that out, it became a little easier and I’m like, okay, I’m crazy enough to pull this off.
“Pull it off” is an understatement. Willis proves a better actor than a good lot of Bay Area actors, incorporating a slapstick side-walk to his step alongside impeccable comedic timing. When asked why the AIC program should continue, Willis explains,
Because Shakespeare was a student of life. He understood human nature. He took a man who was 43½ years old who knew very little about life, in general. I was a walking self-destruction site, and I’m growing up today. I went back to school; I’ve gotten my GED; I’m halfway through the college program. I attend programs which are helpful to my self-development. I tutor, and do you know what? I love who I am today. I’m not ready to be out of here, I’m prepared. It’s because William Shakespeare, the Arts in Corrections program, Marin Shakespeare Company, and these guys over here (signaling to his fellow actors) — that’s why.
Michael is incarcerated under the Three Strikes Law for burglary. He is sentenced to spend the rest of his life behind bars. He has a daughter who turned twelve just a week before this production opened. When he portrayed Malcolm in last year’s production of Macbeth, she was only ten. Michael is a writer. His short stories are featured in two anthologies called Brothers in Pen, available at www.lulu.com. All proceeds go toward the creative writing program offered through AIC.
Don Pedro is by far the most intriguing character in this play. He is a friend to both Benedick and Claudio, but his motivations are sometimes helpful and sometimes hazy. He is skilled in the art of manipulation, but not to the point of being a villain like his half-brother, Don John. Don Pedro’s elusive behavior throughout the play leaves him a question to be answered, much like the actor who portrays him.
“Luke” is a thespian and by far the most skilled on this stage. His mother was a teacher and presented Shakespeare and other literature to her son as “required reading”. She passed away in 2005 – the same year his sister died – while Luke was doing a portion of his time at San Diego’s Donovan State Prison. Luke has been within the California State prison system since 1994 and offered me a foot of his now fourteen-year journey. He started in what he calls “battle gyms” or “rock and roll agencies.” These are the level four maximum security prisons such as Pelican Bay and Folsom, and they house inmates at the highest level of security. They are called “battle gyms” for a reason. His first day in prison, Luke saw a man get stabbed. At his next stop, he got into a cell fight because his “cellie,” a white man, didn’t want Luke in his cell.
I ended up defending myself to the point where he backed away. I don’t want to say I beat him down, but that’s what happened. Those instances carry on in prison. (If) they know you’re a weak person in prison you become prey. I’ve never been anyone’s prey. I’m not a predator. I just believe that everything outside of my arms (Luke outstretches his arms to a span of about six feet, extending from his 6’0”, or so, prominent stature) belongs to you. Everything in my reach belongs to me. So if you touch me, I have to give you what you want. And… uh… I don’t even like to talk about that… Went from there to Lancaster in Riverside. From there I went to Donovan in San Diego. I didn’t even think I was going to be sent here. I went to the annual meeting where they ship everyone out, and I was told ‘you can either stay here or go to another prison,’ and I just thought, oh, I know I’m not gonna get to San Quentin. This place, it’s kinda like a prestige place where you just do your time.
I asked, “Why is it a “prestige place?” And what do you mean by "just doing your time?"
Here, you can just do your time. You don’t have to “suit up.” And by “suit up” I literally mean put newspapers around you so if something happens (Luke leans in a little and lowers his voice), if they try to stab you, you’re guarded. Here, you can actually do your time. You can go to school; you can get into programs that give you the coping skills where if you do step outside of prison, you’re better prepared to say, ‘Hey wait a minute, I’ve seen that person’s spirit, maybe in a different body, and I’ve seen that negative spirit. It’s just wearing a different coat. I know how to navigate around that.' I’ve been to the battle gyms and I’ve survived. Here at San Quentin, there are programs that give us a chance to regain our humanity, to peel back the layers of who we are as men and to know maybe I am worth something. I know I made a mistake, but now is a new day and I want to better myself. Everyone knows we have to wear a face inside the institution. We have to wear a face for the guards; we have to wear a face for everyone else. But we have Samoans, we have Black men, we have Jews up here; we have Christians up here (on stage). We’re all getting along; we’re all doing right. This program’s given us everything because now we can look back after we get out of here. After this vacation’s over, we can look at our children or our grandchildren and say ‘Hey, we made history here.’ Irregardless (sic) as to what they think of us out there, we made history.
Luke wears a wooden Star of David tightly anchored around his neck. He misses his mother, the thought of whom weakens his voice with tears, “so much…so much…” He lives in the present, but also makes plans for his future, for getting out, for seeing his grandmother again and his father, whom he met only once when he was thirty. He plans to take two weeks off and get his legs back because he doesn’t know what it’s like out there anymore. He will also continue to act. If Luke does get out, I, for one, will attend his performances because he is just that good.
Luke told me he was convicted of burglary, arson, attempted kidnapping and murder, and that he did not plead guilty to murder. He has spent nearly every day of the past fourteen years in the library reading law books, has filed seven DNA motions, and has finally been appointed a DNA attorney to potentially investigate the hairs found in the victim’s hands. Luke is sentenced to life in prison.
Perhaps the most convincing words defending the need for the Prison Arts Project come from a man named “Bone.” In a kind of poetic way, Bone (aka Troy Williams), who portrays Claudio in this production, introduces himself,
My nickname is ‘Bone,’ right? So whatever you imagine about a dude named Bone doin’ Shakespeare, I probably ai’nt one of ‘em. It’s like, it’s about growth. When you go into a character you learn about the emotional content of who you are as an individual. You also are able to look beyond peer pressure. Once again, a dude named Bone sittin’ up here onstage at San Quentin State Prison doin’ Shakespeare. I’m sure that doesn’t fit many images that come across a person’s mind about a dude named Bone.
True, but perhaps if you knew the derivation of the name, you’d think differently. Where Troy was growing up in Chicago, people were given nicknames that were opposite their personality. When Troy was young, he was a “pudgy little kid. I would move slow all the time; I wouldn’t rush nowhere.” His aunties started teasing him by calling him “Turbo.” Troy couldn’t yet pronounce the word, so he said “Tay-bo,” sorta like T-Bone. Over time, that turned into “Bone.”
Bone is well aware of the swinging door effect of our prison system. Statistics show that ninety percent of inmates will return to our communities, but how many will reenter the system? With this in mind, Bone makes a strong case for the continuation of support for the Prison Arts Project.
After spending so many years in a confined place where there was no interaction, it’s like you had to hide your emotions, look tough, don’t let people see the weak side of you. Please and thank you is considered a weakness. Imagine living in that for nine/ten years and being pressed back into society. In here, being involved in programs like this, you get to use your creativity. You get to be who you are, to be who you want to be. To work toward your goals in life, and not just stuck up on the shelf. It’s a major difference. You can’t sit a guy in an environment where he doesn’t deal with his emotions. You can’t sit a guy in a place like that and then thrust him in the streets with $200. It’s not gonna work ‘cause he’s gonna revert to what he knows best that got him in prison. To feel. That’s the key word. To feel. To be here, to deal with your emotions, especially when it’s Shakespeare-related. You really have to work to understand what are these words saying. You delve into the emotions and you control that emotion through your acting. So when it comes time to deal with that in real life, you’ve had some practice.
It seems as though Much Ado About Nothing is not necessarily the “thing” here, but one of the many destinations for these eleven men. I’d bargain that the Shakespearean journey is more the “thing.” There’s a sense in Shakespeare’s plays that a journey is symbolic of transformation in some way. Hamlet’s journey across his sea of troubles returns a man of “readiness” and “action.” In The Tempest, the play begins with Prospero recounting his forced journey across the sea and ends with his brave new journey back, unarmed and willingly o’erthrown. These eleven incarcerated individuals, ten of them “lifers,” broke many barriers and crossed many lines in order to act together on this stage — racial lines, social lines, religious and emotional lines — and in doing so, they were able to move forward with their personal journeys and into a brave new world illuminated by feeling and understanding through expression and art. This play and this program are about preparing these men for the rest of their lives, no matter where that time is spent.
For more information on the William James Association and the Prison Arts Project, visit www.williamjamesassociation.org.