Dance Battle! - i.e. last night

From the speakers to the floor to your feet to your heart, the bass sends you into cardiac arrest faster than a 70-year-old on speed. Logic lost to passion, hips to the beat, your everything is seduced by the scarcely lit, sophisticated hideaway. The DJ spins the table hard, transitioning seamlessly as one beat flows into the next. God of the alcoholic waterfall, the bartender releases a biblical flow of charismatic cocktails.

The dance floor? Impossibly empty. Indeed, potential performers abound, however, all seem powerless to contest the vacant abyss. Carefully, an inspired group of males form a dancing crescent moon, their solidarity protecting them from the social awkwardness of dancing alone.

The beat begins to stir my feet; I can no longer contain the urge to resist. Tempting a friend with a swing of the hips and a suggestive hand, I lead a friend into the middle of the musical inferno. Heat burning from the eyes of the crowd sets our pores ablaze, but we care not. Our bodies overwhelmed with the universal music, our minds wonder whether all consider the dance floor, let alone the establishment, an exclusive arena. We are not simply the sole beings on the dance floor, but very clearly a part of the small percentage of White individuals in a business frequented by primarily African-American clientele.

As the night progresses, performers who had previously lurked in safer shadows make their way to center circle. A soft brush upon my left shoulder beckons for my attention. Turning my head to meet my admirer, the words “time to battle” caress my ear. A challenge awaits. A crew? Yes, I came with-- ah, a dance cr-, yes, well I-, pick someone? Long before I realize, I have entered my first dance battle. I choose my first enemy.

Kicking, bouncing, sliding, his feet carry him onto the floor. The rhythmic motion is smooth but repetitive. Unclear on the logistics of dance battles, I hesitantly inquire as to the exact timing of my turn. A familiar tap on the shoulder and now it is I who stands to show the crowd my rhythmic prowess. “Go girl!” sails above the beat, “Get it!” What is more? The dancing itself or the shock factor that the body is white? No time to consider; only for I to meet the beat that it speaks.

Turns are taken and the finale awaits. Foreign to the proceedings, I am shaken by the presence of two members of the opposing crew sharing the floor. One leaps with sky high jumping jacks, while the other drops to the floor to push up against the pounding. Inspired by their athletic motions, I jump in, completing a triangle at the center of the room. With a jumping jack of my own I dive downwards, only to push it away. I break out a fish flop move and find myself on my back. Wearied by the lactic acid rushing my thighs I hope to God that I can successfully complete the sequence. Push, thrust, kick! My body projects upwards and I land on my feet. The rush of adrenaline can only be pacified by the relief that I have triumphed.

As we walked into the lounge only a couple of hours before, I wondered if the establishment would accept us. Would we be ignored? Shunned? Judged? A dance battle earning the respect of the crowd later, and the cultural plunge has been completely successfully. Indeed, upon first sight all would have labeled me an outsider, including myself; however, a test of the unknown crowd’s approval would prove my initial judgment of them as exclusive and me as too uncommon, wrong. Next time I take a cultural plunge, I shall not hesitate to bridge the gap.