September 10, 2004
Time Out
By Jazmyn Martin
They meet once a week in a small dance studio on the “eclectic” side of town. The cream colored walls are decorated with great teachers of black dance; Katherine Dunham, Judith Jameson, Alvin Alley, et al. However, long, slender white bodies counting and pacing their rhythm dominate the floor.
This is not the Afro-Brazilian dance I expected and unfamiliar glares from my counterparts reinforce my isolation. Living in Buffalo, N.Y, one of the most segregated towns in the northeast, builds tolerance for being the sole pigmented person in the room so I decide to stay despite the obvious.
“One, two, three and two, two three,” a small-framed white woman with a hooked nose counts while leading the warm up. “Now, plié, ronde de jambe, jeté.”
Confused by the ballet terminology I watch and do my best impression of the other side of the rainbow where Afro-Brazilian dance consists of three counts and jetés.
The warm up ends and a dense rhythm kicks the white girls into full gear. Twisting and twirling while counting they perform a colorless and calculated rendition of “ethinic” dance.
One, two, three. Two, two, three. Three, two three.
From young white’s infatuation with jazz in the 30s to their present day fondness of hip-hop culture the black aesthetic comes complete with a how-to-kit, now on sale at your local department store, bubble wrapped, boxed and tagged.
These days popular video channels pair fashion and style gurus with sorority girls for lessons on how to dress and walk with “flava” while convincing viewers that blackness can be purchased.
Angela Tillman, a 39-year-old Buffalo resident, has been witness to young whites attempting to “act black.” Tillman, who has a growing distain for the current hip-hop climate, said the daily minstral show staged in the hallways of suburban high schools is a result of a commercialized image of “black.”
“White people seem to enjoy the worst of our culture,” she said. “From where I’m standing these young white kids are making a mockery of themselves with all of that foolishness. “Rap is not our common denominator,” she continued. “It’s not the whole of black culture and it’s not me. I don’t feel akin to that horrible bitch…hoe.”
Hip-Hop in all of its forms was always appealing to Emile, a hip-hop producer raised in Buffalo and now living in New York City. “I can’t say when or how it happened,” he said with infatuation. “It just did, It was the first music I heard and I’ve always been attracted to it.”
Recently dubbed an up-and-coming producer by the Source Magazine the young white hip-hop aficionado said he had to prove himself before gaining acceptance.
“Race is always going to be a reality,” he said. “There are a lot of white boys in the game. But, hip-hop is one of the few areas where it doesn’t matter as much. Especially in New York where people are so open and progressive.”
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind sharing. All I ask is that my culture be experienced with a level of respect. Buying a weave and a pair of Baby Phat jeans doesn’t make you hip-hop. Know that no matter how much time you spend in tanning booths or in the soul section of your local music stores if you weren’t born with it you’ll never “be” black.
Know that the blood of my people saturates most of America’s musical traditions, including gospel, jazz, blues, R&B, and hip hop and our history is embedded in our movement.
Know that the ancestral memory of Africa that runs though our veins is what gives way to the stark drumbeat and our complex, staccato movements, which are often imitated but rarely perfected.
It’s simply a part of us, which is why imitations of black life generate performances that are often off beat.
One, two, three. Two, two, three, Three, two three.
Posted at September 10, 2004 09:01 AM