(Favorite current song: Echo by Gorilla Zoe)
I wanted to edit and add to the piece I posted a couple of months ago. Rethinking this dance in a context outside of the intimate lounge in which it occurred, I have extended the metaphor into the realm of cultural differences defined along lines of gender, race, class, sexual orientation, disability, etc.
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 anathema of dancing alone.
Plagued by the perilous rhythm, the urge to resist can no longer subsist. With a swing of the hips and a suggestive hand, I tempt a friend into the heart of the musical inferno. Heat burning from the eyes of the crowd sets our pores ablaze, but we care not. Our bodies are overwhelmed with the universal music; our minds wonder whether all consider the dance floor, let alone the establishment, an exclusive arena. The tempo just barely prohibits our modest unease surrounding our too obviously unique appearances. For beyond claiming the sole bodies on the dance floor, we also share the possibly burdensome role of the lone White individuals among the primarily African-American clientele.
As the night progresses, performers emerge from lurking in safer shadows and 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?-- Before I process what has transpired, I have entered my first dance battle. The first challenger is chosen; indeed sir, time to battle.
Kicking, bouncing, sliding and gliding, 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 girl!” 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 with my original challenger. With neither an official rules handbook on dance battles nor a referee, I am clueless as to the merit of a one-on-one skirmish transitioning into a two-on-one affair.
No matter.
One opponent leaps with sky high jumping jacks while another 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 onto the ground, 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 a smooth 360° spin and the relief that I have triumphed.
Upon first sight, most might have labeled me an outsider, including myself. As we walked into the lounge only a couple of hours before, I had wondered if the establishment would accept us. Would we be ignored? Shunned? Judged? A test of the unknown crowd’s approval would prove my initial judgment of the majority as exclusive and me as too uncommon, wrong. Filling the place of distrust and uncertainty, musical harmony and improved cultural confidence surfaced through a challenge of motion and rhythm.
Do not mistake my point, I do not propose that history books decades from now dedicate a chapter to World War IV: the Epic Dance Battle, 2009-2014. Nevertheless, I do argue that the uncertain fear, terrifying apprehension, and threatening dissimilarity that is inherent in cultural difference is too often confronted through ironically non-confrontational solutions. Encouraging a culturally-blind approach to social issues, whether it be color-blind, gender-blind, or otherwise, does not represent a long-term solution to conflicts with centuries of strife behind and before them.
The alleviation of tension related to social difference will not be achieved through resolutions centering on the production of the invisibility of social differences. No solution that so blatantly misjudges the value in these differences as solely conflict-rousing evils will serve us well. Indeed, the most paralyzing fear of all is the fear of cultural fear itself. Admittedly, some of the most daunting, challenging, painful, and uncomfortable experiences come from confronting our fear of cultural difference. Too often do we succumb to the powerful negative emotions associated with overcoming this fear. Unfortunately, this ultimate submission to the fear of exploring variations in humanity rob us of the tremendous intellectual influence, artistic development, and simple joys that only bridging cultural divides can produce. We have admitted fear of social difference, as millions in deaths and millennia in wars verify; this fear must end; we know its perils too well and it must be renounced.
The rhythm of difference continues to beat, but it remains unanswered. Too often and too long has it been ignored, suppressed, and made invisible. It is time to battle: turn up the volume; pick a challenger; simultaneously terrifying and yet infinitely enlightening, we must meet the beat that the rhythm speaks.
