Please let me know if he's on your mind
Last night, I found myself at a Sweet Sixteen for a friend from elementary school. Her party was a typical party for Brooklyn crowds: resplendent in middle class grandeur, displayed in the ornate design of the gown and the two limousines outside of the hall. The crowd was also typical for a Brooklyn Sweet Sixteen: friends arrived in droves, from every school my friend had ever attended. Adults that my friend's mother had deemed necessary were invitees: old teachers, old aunts, and older matronly women who no one seemed to know. I greeted my girlfriends who I hadn't seen since fourth grade. We talked over food about how our lives had been since we had last seen each other, but as we began to reminisce about grade school, the DJ decided that it was time to dance. He began to play music that we all knew from our parents. We sat back and let the music let us drift to the good times. "Ah", said Jay, "This was the first song I dubbed to ever! That was way back in the day... back when dubbing wasn't so crazy."
We nodded. We bemoaned the madness of children, as if we were old crones at our spinning wheels. The spinning wheels of life were turning for us, but we didn't quite acknowledge its turning. That was fine, I supposed.
The DJ began to play all the current hits. We ran out on the dance floor, howling "That's my song!!" with every intermittent beat that pounded through our bloodstream. We shook our hips, threw off our shoes and displayed our sexual prowess to any and all in view. We, the girls, called the boys to the mating ritual that most likely occurred nightly on that shiny dance floor.They stood, impassive, like bobbleheads, for only their heads moved to crane another look at another girl's posterior going around in circles. They scoped the scene like hawks, whispering to each other, nudging each other, daring each other to make the first move. It was a stalemate between the girls, who had already been gyrating for at least half an hour, and the boys, who seemed physically incapable of coherent movement. Then, the chosen few swooped up their prizes. They seized asses and rutted their way through another hour. They were certain they were dancing. I was not. I sidled up to a friend, looking for the safety in numbers. We, as prey, tend to have to work pretty hard to escape the voracious hunger of a boy's crotch. Strangely, however, no moves were being made. Uncertain in my status as prey, I double-checked by dropping low, while twirling my hips like a hula hoop. There was no attack. There was no attack! Feeling with certainty that I could safely dance in whatever way I pleased, I began to do so. I did so for quite some time without the duress of nether-regional attention. I watched the boys warily, seeing them always standing near, edging their way over to look some more. I decided that these were not true hunters. They were scavengers. Not a falcon, but a buzzard. While a buzzard is completely capable of taking down prey, it chooses not to, waiting until its prey is as good as dead. Being in my prime, I was certain that I would not be taken down by a foolish buzzard. I laughed, kicked my feet as far as my tight restrictive pencil skirt and 2 inch heels allowed and continued to dance. But then, in the lull of an unknown lyric, I was suddenly pillaged. Behind me, without warning, there was something pecking at me. I ignored it, being slightly silly and unseeing by this time. But it was insistent. I wanted to go one way, and this parasite wanted to go another. It was maddening, but I endured, for I figured that this could not last very long. Surely it would only be a couple more minutes before it had gotten what it wanted. I could play dead for that long. But as I stood there, I grew more and more annoyed. This was dancing? This was dry fornication? This felt like rubbing my butt on a rotating piece of sandpaper. For what, this piece of shit, whose name I did not know, didn't want to know, and never learned, to feel some buildup in his penis? I stepped away. His claws were still stuck on my arms, but I dislodged them and continued to walk away. My feet ached with the pain of inflicting needles on an eyeball, as far as I could tell. I changed shoes. Perhaps now I would be safe from the attacks, thought I. Foolish child. Foolish foolish child. Another came, dressed like the devil itself in a black suit with red vest. He grabbed me, but I was quicker, and snatched myself away quickly. "Don't you want to dance?" he asked. "No". Just no. There is no pleasure in this stupidity, and the juvenility of young women in taking pleasure by giving an unknown boy pleasure makes me want to laugh.
Why can't we dance, youth of America? Must we wind ourselves up and down on each other's bodies, adding extra not entirely pleasant friction, and then making faces as if this is pleasant? Surely crumping and breakdancing can lend a helping hand? Could we salsa a little, or waltz a bit? Is that not fun? Am I an alien?
I turned to a friend. An old friend, but also an old enemy. I turned to her, and said "can't we just dance?"She nodded. The camaraderie of pre-k came flooding back. Here was the girl who was where I was, standing on the plateau looking down to the plain, and trying to figure out why the hell no one wanted to climb the steppe to get where we were. We must have seemed crazy then, grinning as we mentally high-fived with our superiority, our realization of other options. We saw the road, but we knew that there was a better road, with less bumps and less itching, that would take us to the blessed Nirvana of dancing, where people of all colors stand around with their sweat rags and water bottles, tired, but having a damned good time. We saw it, but we tried the other road anyway. Just as we suspected, it was gross. And I asked myself, how do these other girls do it?
- Ludacris, Gossip Folks (Missy Elliot)
Last night, I found myself at a Sweet Sixteen for a friend from elementary school. Her party was a typical party for Brooklyn crowds: resplendent in middle class grandeur, displayed in the ornate design of the gown and the two limousines outside of the hall. The crowd was also typical for a Brooklyn Sweet Sixteen: friends arrived in droves, from every school my friend had ever attended. Adults that my friend's mother had deemed necessary were invitees: old teachers, old aunts, and older matronly women who no one seemed to know. I greeted my girlfriends who I hadn't seen since fourth grade. We talked over food about how our lives had been since we had last seen each other, but as we began to reminisce about grade school, the DJ decided that it was time to dance. He began to play music that we all knew from our parents. We sat back and let the music let us drift to the good times. "Ah", said Jay, "This was the first song I dubbed to ever! That was way back in the day... back when dubbing wasn't so crazy."
We nodded. We bemoaned the madness of children, as if we were old crones at our spinning wheels. The spinning wheels of life were turning for us, but we didn't quite acknowledge its turning. That was fine, I supposed.
The DJ began to play all the current hits. We ran out on the dance floor, howling "That's my song!!" with every intermittent beat that pounded through our bloodstream. We shook our hips, threw off our shoes and displayed our sexual prowess to any and all in view. We, the girls, called the boys to the mating ritual that most likely occurred nightly on that shiny dance floor.They stood, impassive, like bobbleheads, for only their heads moved to crane another look at another girl's posterior going around in circles. They scoped the scene like hawks, whispering to each other, nudging each other, daring each other to make the first move. It was a stalemate between the girls, who had already been gyrating for at least half an hour, and the boys, who seemed physically incapable of coherent movement. Then, the chosen few swooped up their prizes. They seized asses and rutted their way through another hour. They were certain they were dancing. I was not. I sidled up to a friend, looking for the safety in numbers. We, as prey, tend to have to work pretty hard to escape the voracious hunger of a boy's crotch. Strangely, however, no moves were being made. Uncertain in my status as prey, I double-checked by dropping low, while twirling my hips like a hula hoop. There was no attack. There was no attack! Feeling with certainty that I could safely dance in whatever way I pleased, I began to do so. I did so for quite some time without the duress of nether-regional attention. I watched the boys warily, seeing them always standing near, edging their way over to look some more. I decided that these were not true hunters. They were scavengers. Not a falcon, but a buzzard. While a buzzard is completely capable of taking down prey, it chooses not to, waiting until its prey is as good as dead. Being in my prime, I was certain that I would not be taken down by a foolish buzzard. I laughed, kicked my feet as far as my tight restrictive pencil skirt and 2 inch heels allowed and continued to dance. But then, in the lull of an unknown lyric, I was suddenly pillaged. Behind me, without warning, there was something pecking at me. I ignored it, being slightly silly and unseeing by this time. But it was insistent. I wanted to go one way, and this parasite wanted to go another. It was maddening, but I endured, for I figured that this could not last very long. Surely it would only be a couple more minutes before it had gotten what it wanted. I could play dead for that long. But as I stood there, I grew more and more annoyed. This was dancing? This was dry fornication? This felt like rubbing my butt on a rotating piece of sandpaper. For what, this piece of shit, whose name I did not know, didn't want to know, and never learned, to feel some buildup in his penis? I stepped away. His claws were still stuck on my arms, but I dislodged them and continued to walk away. My feet ached with the pain of inflicting needles on an eyeball, as far as I could tell. I changed shoes. Perhaps now I would be safe from the attacks, thought I. Foolish child. Foolish foolish child. Another came, dressed like the devil itself in a black suit with red vest. He grabbed me, but I was quicker, and snatched myself away quickly. "Don't you want to dance?" he asked. "No". Just no. There is no pleasure in this stupidity, and the juvenility of young women in taking pleasure by giving an unknown boy pleasure makes me want to laugh.
Why can't we dance, youth of America? Must we wind ourselves up and down on each other's bodies, adding extra not entirely pleasant friction, and then making faces as if this is pleasant? Surely crumping and breakdancing can lend a helping hand? Could we salsa a little, or waltz a bit? Is that not fun? Am I an alien?
I turned to a friend. An old friend, but also an old enemy. I turned to her, and said "can't we just dance?"She nodded. The camaraderie of pre-k came flooding back. Here was the girl who was where I was, standing on the plateau looking down to the plain, and trying to figure out why the hell no one wanted to climb the steppe to get where we were. We must have seemed crazy then, grinning as we mentally high-fived with our superiority, our realization of other options. We saw the road, but we knew that there was a better road, with less bumps and less itching, that would take us to the blessed Nirvana of dancing, where people of all colors stand around with their sweat rags and water bottles, tired, but having a damned good time. We saw it, but we tried the other road anyway. Just as we suspected, it was gross. And I asked myself, how do these other girls do it?
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