What Makes That Black?

Luana in rehearsal of “mo’ black blues”

I could either riot or Krump.

I could tear apart the neighborhoods which belong to you and me …

I could obliterate your business …

I could rumple our economic agreement based on your self-centered dynamics, or, I can dance myself into percussive trance where I meet myself, my God, my sanity, and my genius.

Of course rioting and krumping serve different agendas. If I want to rarify me … I’ll Krump. If I want to rarify you and me … I’ll riot. But for now, to hell with you, I’ll start with the movements of my ancestors. I’ll bring my aggression to the dance floor … moving my arms, legs, and pelvis with jaggedness and thrusts, shaking my fertility into violent self-awareness.

I will ferociously plunge my body into that of my brother’s – knowing he will receive, absorb, and absolve my vicious assault as an indication of kinship. I will glare from behind the depths of my retina, dismantling matter, insanity and fear. My rhythmic slams and stabs will take me to the promise land as I dance my half-dressed body… my nakedness a sign of purity, ferocity, indigenousness, and oneness with God.

Percussive movement scares you, you think its part of my protest … but it’s part of my healing … my declaration of self.

Aggression serves me, and my dance easily holds it. Only after I scream, and glare, and syncopate, and plunge, and tear, and innovate, and slash will I be able to turn toward your red and shocked face and say, “The solipsistic paradigm employed as an aspect of economic and social hegemony is about to become inclusive of me and all my brothers and sisters, at which point all the previous descriptors of your life will no longer apply, in other words … your way of life is going down baby.”

Only at that point will I decide to riot or to litigate, or both.