Martin Velasco walks with a turntable and a guitar amp in his clutches as he makes his way through a gray courtyard, in between waves of kids in baseball caps and saggy jeans. Suddenly, an older-looking security guard raises suspicion. He inquires about Velasco’s equipment in hand, and then easily lets him by. Velasco enters a hallway with bright colors bouncing off the walls, and his sneakers squeak as he stops to unlock a door. He quickly sets up some DJ equipment on a table that sits next to a classical piano and stacks of sheet music. Soon after, a group of kids shuffle into the room and form clusters of semicircles as they reach for their seats, when a recognizable drum beat fills the air. The infectious beat begs every head to bob, and as a very loud and annoying electronic bell rings, everyone’s attention shifts to Velasco.

“Everybody here?” says Velasco, 23. “Today’s lesson is beat juggling patterns.”

Velasco is one of three instructors who teach the hip-hop theater course at San Francisco’s School of the Arts. Velasco, along with break-dancer Jenn Burnett and emcee Oposi(pronounced Opposite) gained the interest of the Twin Peaks high school through their efforts with Def Ed, a collective that educates youth through hip-hop with numerous after-school programs throughout the Bay Area. Burnett pieced together a 36-week syllabus and the class became a fully credited course soon after. Halfway through the first year of its inception kids are rapping, scratching and breaking, and getting closer to graduating for doing it.

Student Gabe Klachkovsky replaces Velasco behind the set of turntables and begins manipulating the vinyl albums with his fingers. At 15, his face bears that blank look that every high school kid seems to wear, but his movements create scratches that sound on time with the beat to Apache, a seminal break beat pounding with thunderous, machine gun-paced percussion.

“I have a lot more appreciation since going to this class,” says Klachkovsky. “Before then, I didn’t know anything about DJing.”

A small group of students gather around Klachkovsky and study his technique as they wait for their turn. The end of the year will culminate in a performance the class will put on before the rest of the school. At this point, the majority of the class has found their niche, and interacts directly with the instructors, learning various techniques in each of the four elements of hip-hop: DJing, emceeing, break-dancing, and graffiti writing.

“I’m impressed with myself,” says Velasco. “There are a few kids that aren’t just good, they’re standouts.”

The ring of the lunch bell goes ignored by the small group of students remaining huddled around the spinning wheels of steel, waiting their turn several minutes after class. A man with a scholarly beard and attire enters the room and sports a furrowed brow as he looks at the turntables. Dr. Ilan Glasman, a teacher under the school’s vocal music program for several years, shares the room with the hip hoppers. Glasman is among the members of the school’s faculty who believe this course is a welcome addition to the curriculum.

“If the students are succeeding in any vehicle, it’s a good thing,” says Glasman. “How sweet would it be if the next Eminem came from this school?”

But perhaps finding a diamond in the rough is preceded by what could be more important. The next class meeting begins with teacher and emcee Oposi reading a recent newspaper article regarding misogyny in hip-hop.

“I got a sister, a mother, and a grandma. Doesn’t all this sex bother you, Perry?” asks Oposi.

Perry, one of the students in the class, adjusts the brim of his red Yankees cap and says, “Not really. All the videos are the same way, it doesn’t bother me.”

“But what if it was your sister in those videos?” questions Oposi.

“I guarantee somebody’d get shot,” replies Perry.

Not only does the class teach skills related to hip-hop elements, but also sheds light on recurring themes embedded throughout the culture. Burnett, 26, stresses the importance of addressing what she says are the five main reoccurring themes in hip-hop: violence, misogyny, greed, neglect, and poverty. Burnett is also the program assistant at Def Ed, an organization that engages youth through educational workshops that promote values through hip-hop.

“Everyone’s complaining, but they aren’t looking for solutions,” Burnett says. “Hip-hop gives kids a lot of current social awareness.”

The class addresses the next topic of discussion, violence. Burnett begins the period to talk about the recent shootings in the Fillmore neighborhood.

“We all know how to kill someone, let’s flip the script and talk about ways how not to kill somebody,” Burnett says.

The class splits up in small groups, and Burnett takes two boys aside to work on break-dancing moves, while Oposi takes a seat next to a few students to talk about violence.

“When I was your age, there was so much pressure to do wild shit,” says Oposi as two students attentively listen. “Out of all of it, I got dead homies. That’s what I got.”

It’s not a secret that hip-hop has ultimate appeal to the youth. Oposi uses that to his advantage when he speaks on such sensitive subjects.

“Hip hop is what the youth feel passionate about. When I speak their language, they want to learn,” he says.

This pilot course may set a standard for the possibility of hip-hop as part of credited curriculums for other schools—speaking the same language seems to work. The class stays ten minutes after class once again, this time to keep their attention on what Burnett and Oposi have to say. Afterwards, student Sophia Singleton slings her backpack across her shoulder and leaves for lunch. Singleton, 16, hasn’t been behind turntables or doing headstands much, but leaves the class fulfilled.

“[Through hip-hop], they show us what’s not exposed on radio and TV,” says Singleton. “They’re genuine. They show us what’s real.”