A brief but thoughtful exegesis of the most current African American dances, or at least those I witnessed on last evening, by Max Reddick

I didn’t get to post yesterday because I was helping prepare for a reception and celebration for my niece and nephew. My niece graduated from Cornell University School of Law and just recently passed the Florida Bar exam on her very first try. Go get’em girl! I almost can’t wait to go get into some trouble so I can test out her skills.

And in the spring my nephew graduated from the Florida Agricultural and Mechanical University (FAMU) with a doctorate in physical therapy and, and that ain’t easy when you have women literally hanging all over you. Also, he just passed his state board exams, so he is a certified practitioner now.

Big ups to the next generation!

But this post is about dancing. Last night, after the obligatory slide show and all the speeches and toasts, the party really got started. Some colorful character with the moniker Chilly Chill of the Playtime DJ’s did a remarkable job getting the crowd all hyped up and on the dance floor. However, there are some questions I must ask.

Now, I don’t get out to parties much. I would much rather prefer to sit at home and read and write. But I can’t believe how much I seem to have missed. I really wanted to get out there and dance and kick my heels up, but I didn’t know any of the dances. So, I was relegated to sitting there in my seat like Sir Nose Devoidofunk—I will not dance!—while others enjoyed themselves.
But the first question I must ask is how does everyone know every step to every line dance but me? Is there some kind of Negro National Newsletter that goes out outlining the steps to the Cupid Shuffle?

And next, when did people stop dancing together? When I was young we danced in pairs, but now everyone seems to just charge the dance floor and dance by themselves or one person dances while everyone watches. Can’t quite figure out how that works now.

However, while I sat on the sidelines sipping scotch and looking on, I had time to analyze the most current African American dance moves or at least those I witnessed on last night.

1. Wu-Tang wit’ It

I was sitting there when all the young people suddenly ran toward the dance floor. Once there they immediately began to thrash about as their heads bobbed vigorously up and down in a whiplash inducing manner. Immediately I thought, “I knew that prime rib tasted funny. It must have affected the children first because of their weak immune systems!” But then my daughter informed me that they were simply “Wu-Tanging wit it.”

So, of course, I had to ask her what “it” was. Were they Wu-Tanging wit food poisoning? Epilepsy? The palsy? She then informed me that “it” was just “it.” I will be better able to deconstruct this dance once I find out just what “it” is; however, I believe “it” to be very bad indeed if it causes one to move in the manner I witnessed.

And just a word to the youth: Wu-Tanging wit’ It in a cocktail dress ain’t classy.

2. The Stanky Leg

Okay, I get the central premise of this dance. One leg is so vilely malodorous that it must be extended away from the body so as not to offend the other leg. But what I don’t get is why, once the leg is extended, one would then move it about so vigorously. Would not all that moving of the leg cause the leg to sweat thereby causing the offending odor to intensify? And by moving it about, would that not cause the offending odor to be diffused over a wider area?

In short, by increasing the very intensity of the odor and then diffusing it over a even wider area, you defeat the purpose of ever having set the leg apart in the first place. I tend to believe that whoever conceived of this dance did not think the requisite time and effort to reason the whole thing through.

3. The Booty Hop

I apologize, but I cannot even find a video of this dance being performed that is tame enough to display on this blog. The animated GIF I found is bad enough, but it appears that in order to do the booty hop correctly, one must fully expose their booty.

But anyway, last night I was sitting at a table speaking with three professional women who are very well respected in their fields. Suddenly in the middle of the conversation, one of them loudly announced, “I’m going to go do the booty hop!”, and ran to the dance floor. And then the other two looked at each other, and they too fled to the dance floor. This morning two of the three women are complaining of lower back pain, so I will endeavor to diagnose their problem.

The mass of one’s behind usually increases in direct proportion to the increase in age. And then when one squats, extends that massive behind out, and then makes it move rapidly and unnaturally in an up and down motion, especially when that massive behind is accustomed to sitting behind a desk all day, it results in the muscles of the lower back stretching and the spinal vertebrae being forced out of line.

Not only does one who is not professionally trained and supervised risk injury by attempting this dance, but if all that behind begins to move in one direction, you risk the forces of inertia taking over thereby causing a loss of control, and who could even imagine the potential danger of a massive, out of control behind plowing into a crowd of people.

4. Look Back at It

Again, I apologize, but I could not find a suitable video to demonstrate this dance. Is there a YouTube rating system for videos? I cannot even count the number of bare bottoms in thong panty drawers and too short shorts I had to view in searching for a video.

Anyway, when the crowd began doing this dance, it kind of caught me unawares. I was standing on the edge of the dance floor, and one minute everyone’s back was to me, and then suddenly it appeared that they were all looking over their shoulders at me. So, alarmed, I looked over my shoulder to see if someone was standing behind me. And when I turned around everyone was now looking behind them and moving their behinds in a suggestive manner.

This really threw me off. However, my son explained to me that it was not about me at all, but it was just the “Look Back at It” dance. And this time I fully understand what it really is.

The dance seems to be simply “The Booty Hop” except now the dancer looks back over his or her shoulder at their behind as it moves rapidly in an up and down manner. However, I have yet to determine why.

But for the purposes of this brief exegesis, I attempted the “Look Back at It” dance and found that by adding the element of looking back and making and maintaining eye contact with your backside, the complexity of this dance increases exponentially.

Again, if you are of a certain age and your behind is of a certain volume and mass, it is recommended that you not attempt this dance.

5. Cupid Shuffle, Obama Shuffle, ChaCha Slide, Electric Slide, and the various species of other shuffles and/or slides

Is it just me, or are all of these the same dance but with different names and music. And I do not mention this out of bitterness at being asked to leave the dance floor after bumping into several people and stepping on several feet because I did not know the steps and ended up going in the wrong direction. I am perhaps a little embarrassed, but I am not bitter.

And to that little old lady with all the mouth, I can follow directions, thank you, but the directions were not all that clear. “To the left, to the left, to the left…,” shouted several times in rapid succession could mean anything. To the left what?

But I do believe it is time that we as a people quit allowing ourselves to be fooled in this manner. The powers that be simply change the name and publish new music to correspond with that new name, and we then rush out to spend money on the twelve inch single to play at our next party, bar-b-q, or family reunion. They keep us spending money just to keep up with the latest dance trend. When are we going to wake up and shake off the chains of our economic oppression?

But he's still human even if his actions were not

At a little after 9:06 PM on Tuesday, November 10, 2009, a representative of the Virginia Department of Corrections injected John Allen Muhummad, the D.C. Sniper, with a lethal cocktail and shortly thereafter he expired.

And on Wednesday morning, I awoke to find a plethora of headlines such as this one taken from the NY Daily News Online:  “Families of DC sniper victims celebrate John Allen Muhummad’s execution.”  On my Facebook page I ventured upon a status that read simply, “I’m glad that monster is dead.”  And “He’s finally dead, and I am elated.”

I, like most rationally people, find John Allen Muhummad’s actions to be completely and utterly reprehensible and inexcusable, but in the same instance, should we really be celebrating or cheering the death of another human being?  When is it acceptable to gain pleasure from the death of another human being?

And this is not about the death penalty though I do have a few qualms about it.  For one thing, those sentenced to death in this country are disproportionately minority and poor.  Not only that, the number of people released from prison recently after evidence was found that exonerated them only works to convince me that all on death row, or in prison for that matter, are not necessarily guilty.

If you remember, in 2003 once the governor of Illinois realized the flaws inherent in this nation’s death penalty system he took the unprecedented step of commuting the death sentence of everyone on death row in the state of Illinois.

And before you charge me with being insensitive to John Allen Muhummad’s victims and the victims’ families, you could not be more wrong.  I am completely sympathetic.  I shudder to think what would happen if one of those victims just happened to be my son or daughter, or my brother or sister, or my mother or father, or even my spouse.  I don’t think I would ever be able to get over it.

But however deep my grief over the loss of my loved one, I am not sure how the death of another could work to quell that grief.  Again, my heart goes out to John Allen Muhummad’s victims and their families, and I pray that someday their hearts will finally heal.  However, I find celebrating or cheering the death of another human being to be fundamentally wrong no matter who that human being is or what action he or she has committed. 

After all, despite their actions, they are still human beings.  They are still somebody’s child.

To our veterans: Have a happy & enjoyable Veterans Day

I am a veteran. Did I ever mention that? I don’t talk about it much, though. It has been a little over twenty years, and sometimes I feel very detached from that experience. Nevertheless, I served my country, this country, honorably and without incident for a little over six years.

That is why during this past presidential election, each time I heard the term “real American” I bristled. I became outraged. How can you discount my years of service because I do not think as you do? How can you question my patriotism when I offered up the most valued possession of any—my life—for the well-being and continuance of our nation?

And I recall others who served with me and alongside me. I recall with awe and reverence those who went before me. In every conflict from the Revolutionary War until this present day, there have been those who look like me who have served and even given their lives for this country. And up until the Korean War, the opportunity to do so was given only begrudgingly, and even then, the conditions under which we served were decidedly inferior to the point of being utterly demeaning.

But I didn’t mean for this to be a rant. I only desired to point out and emphasize the service of many of those who are sometimes thought of as not being “real Americans.” And to be totally honest, I, like many of those who look like me, actually benefitted from my service to this country.

In fact, it is my service to this country that paid for my undergraduate education. In addition, my service to this country allowed me opportunities for leadership and travel that perhaps would not have been available otherwise at such a young age. I perhaps received more from my service than I gave, and I believe I am a much better person now, professionally and otherwise, because of that service.

So, I would just like to take the opportunity to wish my fellow veterans a happy and enjoyable Veteran’s Day even though it comes at an awkward time in the week. Thank you for your service.

Step Afrika! [Show Review]

Recently a colleague informed me of the upcoming local performance of Step Afrika!, a traveling troupe which celebrates the art for m of stepping. From the spelling of the name and from the picture on the front of the announcement I received, I wrongly assumed that Step Afrika! was a show put on by a traveling troupe of South Africans in the musical tradition of Ipi Ntombi, one of my personal favorites, and the stepping referred to was the South African gumboot dance.

However, I as I sat in the venue waiting for the program to begin, I learned, much to my chagrin, that the troupe featured only one native South African. The rest of the troupe came from colleges and universities around the country, namely Howard University in Washington, D.C.

And as the show began, I was even further disappointed. Though the opening sequence featured the most intricate, well-choreographed step routine I have ever witnessed, I did not want to spend my Sunday evening watching a ninety minute step show, so I looked around for the exit.

However, just as I was plotting my escape, the show switched gears, and for the next eighty minutes or so, the troupe led the audience on a virtual cavalcade of excitement, entertainment, and education.

Following the opening sequence which demonstrated stepping as performed by African American fraternities and sororities and provided an explanation to include a historical background in the form of a very entertaining sketch, the troupe masterfully and artfully linked that tradition to older traditions such as traditional African dance, the South African gumboot dance, and African American dance, before bringing it all full-circle with a spectacular step finale.

During the audience participation segments, I looked around at the mostly white audience in an attempt to gauge their reaction. And perhaps I should have been offended when one of a quartet of seemingly septuagenarian white ladies to my right clapped her hands together and exclaimed with glee at the very height of the performance, “This is just like negro river dancing!” I thought it was quite funny.

However, the show did not stop with the performance. Beginning on Monday, the troupe went into several local schools to work with the children as part of their arts-in-education outreach program, Stepping in Schools.

I thoroughly enjoyed the program as did my family. And if Step Afrika! is ever in your area, do yourself a favor and take in a show. You will be glad you did.

If nothing existed, what would you create?

A few days ago, I left the house around seven in the morning and did not get home until a little after nine that evening. And by the time I got home I was completely exhausted and surly. I did not have a bad day, just a long day. I planned to hug my wife and kids, take one of those long Hollywood showers, have me a drink, and pull my notes I had gathered during the day into a post.

But when I sat down to compose, nothing would come. Suddenly my notes made no sense, so in desperation I sent a quick message to a poet friend, Poet Rhythm, that I was in dire need of inspiration. And she quickly responded with a writing prompt in the form of a question: “If nothing existed, what would you create?”

So, I took the prompt, and I went to work. I forgot my fatigue for just a moment as I spent about an hour or so solving the world’s problems in creating me a world.

I began by creating a world completely devoid of all evil. There was no discord; no hatred or discrimination existed. And violence and war could not even be found in the lexicon.

In my world, no one frowned. There was no reason to do so. Every person possessed enough, just enough. No more or no less just to lessen the influence of greed and avarice. And of course no child went to bed hungry, and all were healthy and happy and intelligent.

Take just a second to close your eyes and imagine all that you believe to be beautiful about this world. Now open them. That is what my world looked like.

But the moment I finished creating my world, the moment my utopia existed if only in language, I did not feel right. It was perfect, all too perfect. And it unsettled me.

So, I backtracked a bit and allowed evil to enter my world, but I gave the inhabitants of my world a heart and a conscience, so they might have the tools to resist. And with evil, of course you will have discord. Of course you will have hatred and discrimination which leads to violence and wars, but I left the door open to peace by equipping the people with compassion and reason.

And it really hurt me to allow a disparity in wealth, in material goods even as I understood that this would only invite greed and avarice, but it seemed only fair to me that each person be allowed reward in proportion to her or his talent.

And it hurt most because I understood right away that some children would necessarily go to bed hungry, but I hoped that enough of the people would use their capacity for love and empathy to do all they could to ameliorate the suffering around them, to lift up others even as they climbed.

Finally, I conceded the notion of a perfect beauty and wretched ugliness and blight came in. But I gave the world artists and writers and gave them a heightened sense of perception and expression so that they might show the world glimpses of the possibilities of beauty.

But when I stepped back to read what I had written, to behold what I had created, I realized the futility of this exercise; this plan was already in place and was crafted by an architect, a planner, far greater than I.

So, I selected all that I had written, hit the delete button and opted instead to create a plan to better myself, to become an agent of compassion and reason without regard for reward, to fully utilize my capacity for love and empathy, and fashion myself into that artist, that writer, who possesses the talent, the heightened sense of perception and expression, that might allow me to create brief glimpses of that which is beautiful, to create my own brief and flowered visions of a perfect world.

The Greatest Man Perms of All Time: An Evolutionary History by Max Reddick

Believe it or not, as a child there was nothing I wanted more than a perm. Don’t judge me. Remember, I grew up in South Memphis where, during the 1970’s, everyone who was someone had a perm. Even the conservative Right Reverend Reddick had a perm.

Around the age of eight I began to petition Mother Reddick so that I might get one; however, Mother Reddick firmly believed that eight year olds did not get man perms. She said I had to wait until I was at least twelve. She was ultra-conservative that way.

But anyway, by the time I turned twelve, the classic man perm had fallen out of vogue, and everyone sported Jheri curls. Jheri curls are like perms, only wetter and messier. During this time I made a pact with a friend, a traditionalist like me, to not follow the Jheri curled masses and go back to the basic, traditional man perm. But he happened to get his man perm before I got my man perm, and after the other students made fun of him, I abandoned the plan altogether, leaving him to bear the ridicule on his own. He hasn’t spoken to be again to this day.

And, of course, I could not get a perm in the military, but I planned to get one the moment I got out. However, wouldn’t you know it, early male pattern baldness runs in my mother’s family, and I began to lose my hair early thereby thwarting my plans. A man perm with a big hole in it ain’t classy.

So, in my disappointment I turned to the study of man perms. Over the last twenty years, I have studied man perms extensively until I have emerged as an expert. And it is with that authority that I present you “The Greatest Man Perms of All Time: An Evolutionary History by Max Reddick.”

7. Little Richard (Richard Penniman)

Certainly, Little Richard did not invent the man perm, but he took it to new heights. He took it to places it might otherwise never have gone. And can you just imagine what Little Richard’s man perm has done and what it has seen? In fact, I am currently doing research for a new book: If This Perm Could Talk: The Life of Little Richard as Told by His Hair. It promises to be an instant best seller.

If Little Richard is nothing else, he is an originator and an innovator. According to Little Richard, American culture owes him recognition for inventing rock n' roll and any number of other things. I don't know about all that, but I do know he rocks a mean man perm, even to this day. And to those who don't agree, Shut up!

6. James Brown

Little Richard gave the man perm to the world; James Brown gave the man perm soul. Not only that, he made the man perm manly. But it is something I have been curious about all these years. In my studies of the man perm, I have watched hours and hours of James Brown performance tape, and I cannot figure out just how his perm stayed in place. I mean, he would give these spectacular performances, and five minutes into the performance he would be sweating like a slave, but his perm always stayed in tact.

Most regular perms would have frizzled at the edges or drawn up completely as the hair reverted to its natural state under the heat and moisture, but his did not. And now that he is gone he is not here to share his hair care secrets with the world. But of course everyone remembers the infamous James Brown Thunder Cat mugshot; however, this picture does nothing to cheapen his legacy. Everyone has a bad hair day.

5. Al Sharpton

Al Sharpton’s perm is a direct descendant of the James Brown school of man perms. In fact, Sharpton has often credited James Brown, his actual god father, as inspiring and encouraging his signature hair style.

But Sharpton’s man perm tale is actually the tale of two perms. You have the early Sharpton perm. The early Sharpton man perm was a huge, multi-layered affair he often sported with a jogging suit and a big medallion. I am not quite sure, but an overweight black man in a jogging suit is an oxymoron, isn’t it? But the big man perm and the big medallion seemed to match the larger than life persona Sharpton seemed to be working to cultivate at the time.

However, as Sharpton evolved, so did his man perm. As he moved into the mainstream, he lost weight, got rid of the jogging suits, and went for a more subdued, stream-lined man perm look. And it works for him.

More than anything else, Al Sharpton took the perm mainstream. He is still perhaps the only commentator you will find on mainstream news programs all permed out.

4. Superfly (Ron O’Neal)

The character of Superfly, portrayed by actor Ron O’Neal, perhaps predates Al Sharpton’s emergence as a public figure and man perm nation representative; however, he ranks ahead of Sharpton because of his innovation. Ron O’Neal single handedly sparked the innovation in man perms known as the “Jesus Perm.”

In the early to mid 1970’s, following Ron O’Neal’s lead, man perm wearers began to value length over volume. They began to eschew the large stacked perms of Little Richard, or the tightly curled, stiff perms of James Brown and Sharpton, and went with the long flowing locks, forever changing the man perm game.

However, later in life, unfortunately male pattern baldness caught up with Ron O’Neal too, and his long flowing locks became all but a distant memory. However, we thank him for his invaluable contribution to the game.

3. Prince

Prince, like Sharpton, is the tale of two perms. Early in his career, he followed the lead of Ron O’Neal and went with the Jesus Perm. And this fit his stage persona very well. Each night he would take the concert stage and give the crowd the show of their lives, wearing a long trench coat, knee high boots, and tiny, shiny bikini drawers.

But as he matured, so did his man perm. Now we see an older, more mature Prince, fully clothed and coifed with a shorter man perm style. And if I may be perfectly frank, Prince's hair often looks better than most women. However, his stage presence remains large, and his perm remains very much an important part of the act.

2. Snoop Doggy Dogg

Snoop Dogg represents the younger generation of the man perm enthusiasts. Before the arrival of Snoop, the art of the man perm was quickly dying out; however, Snoop revived the man perm and made it relevant again. If anything, Snoop should be considered a revolutionary, metaphorically speaking. He may have actually altered the course of history just by putting dangerous chemicals in his hair.

Snoop tore down the Berlin wall of men’s hairstyles, ended the apartheid of the ‘do, and sat in the front of the coif bus. Snoop’s man perm is a perm that commands attention; it’s almost as if he’s saying “Yeah, I probably sat in a chair for hours to get my hair to lay down like this. Yeah, it is womanly. But you know what? I scratched my head for an hour before I did this. Why? Because I’m the Snoop D-O double G. Chuch. ”

1. Tafari

Reader, Imma let you finish reading this post, but this is the greatest man perm of all time.

This is the postmodern perm, and it represents both the best and worst of the man perm game. First of all, while respectful to the existing man perm schools, the Little Richard/James Brown school and the “Jesus Perm” school, it embarks on a direction of its own. It charts its own course.

In the same instance, it reveals just how political the man perm game really is. Have you ever heard of Tafari? Exactly. That’s what I am trying to say. With a perm like that, Tafari should be a household name. Somewhere there should be a monument dedicated to this man and his contributions to the science of man perms, something like “A Shrine of the Immaculate Perm.”

Evidently, to get recognition for your man perm, you must be connected in some way to the world of entertainment. However, this is unfair to all those brothers in the street keeping the game alive and rocking the man perms despite what the world says.

The real loser in all this is the man perm game. Tafari has now left the man perm game and rocks the dreads. Also, currently he blogs at Tafari’s Mindspill and is an excellent photographer. Go check out his work at Photography by Tafari Stevenson-Howard.

To the young woman I met across the street from the library at the corner of Laura and Monroe who referred to herself as a whore

To the young woman I met across the street from the main public library at the corner of Laura and Monroe who referred to herself as a whore:

First of all, thank you for taking time out of your day to sit down and have a cup of coffee with me, but most of all, thank you for sharing your narrative with me.

Allow me to clear something up, though. When you first approached me, I knew exactly what you were and why you were there. And even with the wig and through the garish make-up, I could tell you were a lot younger than you claimed to be. Also, within minutes of speaking with you, I also realized that you might be wrestling with an addiction of some kind.

But as you told me, looks can sometimes be deceiving. Despite my appearance, despite my deportment, I am not as naïve as you believe me to be. Green was the word you used, wasn’t it? However, if I appeared to recoil just a bit, if I appeared stunned, it was because never have I witnessed someone speak of themselves with such derision, with such contempt. What is it you called yourself? A whore?

But I must ask you a question that has vexed me to no end this evening. Why did you agree to sit with me? Why me? Why did you not just walk away once you realized that I was not in the market for what you were selling? Why, in the middle of the afternoon, did you feel the need to announce what you perceive yourself to be?

Why could we not have continued our conversation, continued to talk, to laugh, to just enjoy the company of another human being without you ever telling me? More than anything, it sounded like a confession. Why?

And certainly, why did you, why would you, tell me those things you told me about yourself, your history, your life. Perfect strangers usually do not reveal so much about themselves so quickly.

But in response to your question, I have no earthly idea why people treat one another the way they do. I do not know how a father could take such liberty with his daughter, and I certainly do not know how a mother could then turn that daughter out into the street.

Additionally, I do not know why people are so keen to take advantage of the most vulnerable, those most in need of help, of comfort. It is all unfathomable to me.

Yet, I could see how this might tear a person apart. I can see how this might make one feel utterly worthless, how it might cause one to abuse themselves, to abase themselves over and over again, until they no longer know or recognize themselves.

I can see how it could make one pour out their heart to a perfect stranger who offers you only a smile and a kind word and a cup of coffee outside at sidewalk café.

But I wish I could get you to see what I saw; I wish I could find the words to say or the magic button to push that might help you realize that you are worth much more than the 20 dollars or the 50 dollars or the 100 dollars or however much you receive for selling your soul and sanity bit by bit in tiny increments.

I wish I knew how to convince you to love yourself and allow yourself to be loved; however, it suddenly dawns on me after contemplating your narrative that perhaps, just perhaps, you have never actually known love or felt love and probably would not recognize love because you have no frame of reference.

But you have my business card, so call me. You have my cell number, my office number, my home number, so call me. If you need someone to talk to or have coffee with, call me. If you are hungry or have no place to stay, call me.

If you are frightened, if you feel so frustrated, so utterly defeated that you would like to beat your fists against the wall until they bleed or pull your hair out by the roots, if you get tired of the life you are leading, call me, call me, please call me. I would like to be your friend.

If you do not call me for your sake, call me for my own; until I know that you are somewhere safe, that you are off the street, that you believe yourself to be something besides a whore, I will be besides myself with worry.

I am thinking of you, and my family is praying for you. And most of all, I wish you heaven.

Max