I cant dance. Just because Im Black you may not want to believe me. But its the truth. I have the rhythm part of it. But for some reason my body has been afflicted with that Carlton Banks my hips and legs wont move the way theyre supposed to disease. And Ive been suffering with this for 25 long years. Now Im sure your first impulse is to say that Im exaggerating, that just because I cant break into splits or jump over my own leg, that that doesnt mean that I cant dance. But this is not an exaggeration, or a joke. This is my life. And Im the one who has to live it.

Ill never forget the day I found out that I had it. It was 1984 and I was seven years old in the second grade. It was Valentines Day. The sun was shining brightly outside and I was enjoying ice cream and Valentine candy like every grade schooler in the room. Our teacher, Margarita Stephens, called all couples to the dance floor, an empty square of carpet at the front of the classroom. And the couples, all four of us, slowly made our way like boxers headed for the ring. Kenisha Love (in that very abstract things change every other second elementary school way) was my girlfriend and partner. I took her hand and confidently led her to the place where I would learn my fate. We chose New Editions Candy Girl. And as the .45 began to spin I quickly got the strange and awkward feeling that I was in trouble. Kenisha was doing her thing, her arms and legs flowing like a river to the beat while I attempted moves that my body would just not follow. The roars of classmate laughter came quickly and I tugged Kenisha and I back to our seats just before Ralph Tresvant got to the bridge of the groups signature hit. I was dripping with juvenile sweat and mature adult humiliation. But from then on, I knew.

I could tell you about my embarrassing break-dance audition in the fourth grade or the stick to the slow jams strategy that got me through most of high school without too many incidents. But I wont. I could also speak on the several awkward moments in my young adulthood where I had close friends watch me on the club floor for their own comedic entertainment. But I have too much dignity to go into detail. I had a problem and I didnt know what to do. Lessons were out of the question (I was Black and the product of nationalists for heavens sake) and there was no way I was just going to bar myself from ever dancing again. So I had to find an alternative.

Now as youre reading this you probably think that I was overreacting, that its not about how you dance, but that you get out there and have a good time. Let me tell you something from experience: there are times when it matters. In the club, no matter how tight your game is with the sistas when theyre at the bar, chances are you arent getting any digits until you she sees how you move. And if you cant move its very likely that shell start to believe in that that age-old adage that how good you are on the dance floor indicates how good you are at breaking the boxspring. Of course, for me, theres no correlation between the two. But not everyone understands that there are exceptions to the rule.

Getting back to the point, I had to find an alternative. I hit the streets, clubs and parties night after night, weekend after weekend, lurking in the shadows while the men of the moment on the floor rubbed up against booties and sweat through their overpriced silks and suits. But after awhile I noticed something--that lot of them couldnt dance either. They did a lot of slick covering up, keeping their hands in the air and holding drinks to make it look like they were preoccupied. They stuck to the two-step and danced behind their partners to try to look a little more freaky and sensual. And the best technique was that most of them only danced on a crowded floor, where their poor coordination was much less likely to be noticed. So finally seeing the strings behind the nightlife puppet show I did what any desperate non-dancing brother would do. I joined in on the charade.

Now I stick to the two-step and hold on to my drink when Im out there, using clever wordplay to lure my victims onto that well-polished and waxed surface. My partner and I will go through two or three songs and I do a few of those Bill Cosby facial expressions that make me look like that really funny guy who isnt even serious when hes dancing. And while this may seem extremely contrived to you gifted African-centered Leroys from Fame out there, in the immortal words of 80s NBC top cop Rick Hunter, It works for me. Yeah, I cant dance. But in an age where image is everything, I make it look like I can.

Dark
the novel by Kenji Jasper