for little black girls who just wanna dance

for Sjada
and Daneisha, Shanai and Shanay
for the girl at the Y in New Orleans
for the one in Chicago
whose name I don't remember
for Erica and Desiree who asked me if I was
homeless
because I was dancing outside
for the little girls at Hope in kindergarten
for Melka reaching to the moon
even when she couldn't see it
for Mary from Cameroon
who is dancing and learning English at the same time
for the ones who followed me
hungry for more dancing
for Toni and Toya
for Kayla and her twin
for Nana's granddaughter's in Ampento
for letting me teach you the Electric Slide by lantern
for Holy in Semiyak
dancing with me and all the women
for the eyes that followed me in the dark
from the river to the temple in Hampi
for Nena and Alliyah and Chloe
for Daeshawna
for the smile that sneaks onto
your face
watching me dance for the 90 bus
so it can hurry up and
take us home
for all the little black girls
who just wanna dance
and who dance even when no one else will
dance with them
for all the ones who
reflect back to me
why
I am dancing
in the first place

Yes, her name is Sjada with an "S" in the front. That is silent. I met her on the eve of her 4th birthday. I always remember it because we have the same bday. By the time our paths crossed, she had already lived in two very different homes. Rural, peaceful Texas and now, chaotic, Post-Katrina New Orleans. Her father decided there would be work in New Orleans after the storm and moved his whole family--wife and three kids--to the last hold-out of low-income housing on the Westbank of New Orleans, The Woodlands. In the few months I was there, Sjada attached herself to me and would stay up under me even after I was finished working with the other youth. We blew bubbles, colored chalk on the sidewalk, and managed somehow to carve out a bubble of peace in what was a violent and scary village of displaced Americans.

I was new to my powers as a dance healer while in New Orleans. I didn't know why Sjada had picked me to be the source of her creative activities; I just knew I was. The other girls at the Woodlands would dance with me too. When I showed up they would run to the car and start singing and dancing, ready for us to start right there in the parking lot. I wanted to be there more often, but I also wanted to work with other youth in other New Orleans neighborhoods. And so it was, I wandered in and out of a lot of young people's worlds for the few months I was in New Orleans.

I often think about all the beautiful young people I've dance with and wonder what their world is like now. Such memories of Sjada and all the other little mamas I've been blessed to dance with skate through me as Holly, the Alexandria, VA Children's Fest volunteer, sends a group of chocolate girls to me. I am standing in the middle of a field, dancing by myself because no one has heard the announcement that I'm here to "dance and do storytelling." I figure, if I dance, the people will come. It's a diverse crowd; parents and children from all backgrounds. I am expecting to dance with everyone, but instead, the movement brings me into private counsel with a host of long lost African princesses.

First of all, I love dancing. Secondly, I love dancing with people, especially young people. And so I am overjoyed either way. But I always feel extra excited when I get to dance with little black girls. Mainly because I am fascinated by our shared experiences of growing up black/brown/dark/chocolate/nappy/chubby/ashy/or whatever else we find ourselves to be. A lot of my art is inspired from processing the irreconcilable and intangible moments of my childhood: the burns of the hotcomb every two weeks at Ms. Smith's, why my belly seemed to stick out further than my breasts, how come Rosharon was light-skinned and skinny and I was dark and chubby and ashy--and on! I used to pray to God to make me light-skinned and have long hair. My grandmother thinks it's so funny that I keep shaving my head now because all I wanted as a child was long, flowing hair like Barbie. (Once my father did offer to cut all my hair off and replace it with Barbie's. I tearfully declined.)

So when a sea of brown faces, braids, cornrows, and lollipops join me on the sunny field, I know I am home and the dance work can commence. At first I think, "This is so funny! Here is the whole world, and only the little black girls have come to dance." But then I reoriented my thinking. I thought, "How AWESOME that the little African girls chose to share a moment with me! Of course they have come to me; here I am there dancing mama--of course they have come! Let those who want to just watch sit there, but for me and my girls, we're gonna dance!"

I started us off in a circle so that we could play the Name Game. The circle grew one by one as curious faces gathered first at the periphery, and then eased their bodies into the group. The names and postures came like recreations of "my favorite BET video". Hands on hips, twist the neck this way and that, slide and dip down the torso. I don't judge or critique. I simply celebrate them all, for being there, for participating, for speaking up with their names and being bold enough to dance in public space with me.

It takes some time to get all the way around the circle. I am the last one. I always make my name dance bigger and wilder than the others when I'm with young people. I want them to see that thinking waaaaaaaay outside the box is fun and opens us up to new things we would have never imagined otherwise. I take a big leap and shimmy down and say "BINAH!" The girls repeat my move with energy, with big voices, with laughter. I give them permission to be silly, to do something different and be liberated.

Some teenage girls contemplate joining us but instead stand on the side to see what their little sisters and cousins are doing. Parents also look into the circle, humored by their daughters' choices of movement to represent themselves. Perhaps they are wondering at how brave their daughters are to be dancing in public and not be embarrassed or shy. After the name game we pretend to be different elements of nature. Then we assemble ourselves into a make-believe car that can travel all over the globe and to out of space. I ask them all where do they want to go. "Hawaii," two of them say. "Europe, to the Eiffel Tower in Paris," Melka says. "To the Moon," I say.

We journey through all these place on our little plot of grass. People walk by and some even ask me what are we doing. I have no costume, no microphone, no stage. I am actually in my favorite element: just being with the people, no frills. There's this delicate space of infinite creativity that we dance ourselves into. Here we are surrounded with hotdog stands, face painting, guitar band--and yet, we still dance our own story for the moment. I am so happy right now, sharing the Love-Joy with these beautiful girls. My movement is full today, recognizing the dance of all the little black girls is still my own.

Picture guide: 1. Dancing at the Dryades YMCA in New Orleans, LA July 2006 2. My kindergartners freestyling it May 2007 3.Sitting with girls in Kroboland in Ghana Spring 2003 4. Dancing with Holy at a club in Seminyak, Bali Indonesia May 2006.