In the early eighties, I put my John Mellencamp and Air Supply albums to rest and picked up rap music. The first record I played over and over again was “Rapper’s Delight” by The Sugarhill Gang. This was the first rap song to go worldwide, and the long version was over fourteen minutes. I remember putting the needle to the record in my room and being astounded by what I was hearing. That’s not a song—that’s a short story! I had no idea music could evoke a world I recognized.
When I was thirteen, I was at home with my brothers watching music videos on MTV. That was when I first saw Lionel Ritchie’s “All Night Long” video. All across the screen, people were popping, locking, and breakdancing, exerting total control over each individual limb. I was especially mesmerized by two little African-American boys, around ten years old and commanding their bodies along with the rest of the dancers. I instinctively felt I had more in common with them than I did with my middle school classmates. My elementary school had become a K-8 school, and now that I was in seventh grade, there were still less than a dozen kids of color in the entire population.
I was the only one in my family who seemed captivated by the growing urban phenomenon called breakdancing—and captivated I was. 
I sat in front of the TV for hours, just waiting for the video to play again. Then I jumped up, suddenly alive with adrenaline and eager to imitate the motions I saw on the TV, desperate to feel as though I were a part of that community—of any community. At night, I stayed up until midnight waiting to listen to the only local college music station that dared to play rap music. “Planet Rock,” “Jam on It,” and “Rock It” brought me to life in a new way.
In that same year (1983), I came across Motown’s 25th anniversary special on TV. Out walked Michael Jackson to perform “Billie Jean.” Michael Jackson in the eighties, of course, was like The Beatles in the sixties and Elvis in the seventies. He was the King of Pop, and all eyes, all over the world, were on Michael that night. When I opened the window and craned my neck out, I could see and hear other families gathered in their living rooms watching the once-in-a-lifetime performance. Whenever Michael Jackson took the stage, you knew something magical was going to happen. That night, everyone in my house watched in amazement when he displayed his signature moonwalk. My jaw dropped. It was the same moonwalk I saw the two African-American boys do in the “All Night Long” video. That was it. I was hooked.
Almost every day after school, I retreated to the attic in our apartment to practice breakdancing. I did it alone at first, because I was somewhat embarrassed to show others that I was stepping out of my comfort zone. Then, as I started catching on, I recruited three or four friends from school to join me. Even right up to this moment, the song that sent me into a trance was “Planet Rock” by Afrika-Bambaataa and the Soulsonic Force. When that song played, it did not matter who was watching—I just had to move my body and break.
At the time, my mother worked as a housekeeper at two Catholic churches and brought home information regarding their youth programs and activities. Every few months, the churches held a Friday night dance where all the boys stood on one side of the room and the girls on the other. No one danced until one or two songs came on. One was always a Michael Jackson song, and the other was usually the last song of the night—“Open Arms,” by Journey. In between Michael Jackson and Journey, the DJ occasionally went out on the edge and played what was considered a rap song. Invigorated by “Planet Rock” or “Rock It,” the local breakers drew into a circle to perform. During one of these dances, I decided to go for it: I cut into the middle of the circle and let it rip. My peers, many of whom had never seen these moves before—let alone from me—cheered me on, and their cheers fueled my confidence. Then I really cut loose.
Not long afterward, I heard about a dance that students from different schools would be attending. They knew how to breakdance and wanted to see what I had to offer. I still considered myself a novice, but to those who went to these church-hall dances, I was a pro! Back in those days, our lives were sheltered, and we were all waiting for that freeing, footloose experience. Perhaps breakdancing was it.
The Friday night came, and I hitched a ride from a friend to another church hall dance in a different community. Beneath the sanctuary, the room was cavernous—it could easily fit two hundred people. There were no decorations except for pictures of the apostles and various saints on the walls. When the dance started, all of the lights were turned down except the stage spotlights, which illuminated the DJ area. As usual, most of the kids there were white, and true to form, the boys lined up on one side of the room and the girls on the other. No one took to the dance floor until a Michael Jackson song rang out. Then, as the dance progressed, the tension rose as various song requests were made so that a breakdance competition would take place.
Finally, without warning, the beat dropped. All the wannabe breakers circled around one another in the center of the dance floor. The energy in the room was friendly, inviting, and exciting—we all wanted to see others express themselves. Since I had already put myself out there at the other dance, I had to strut my stuff here as well—but, as with my first baseball practice, I sat back to check out the competition first. The majority of the crowd was white, and though some of the kids were in my circle, others were distant acquaintances with whom I never thought I had anything in common. I clapped and cheered along with the rest of the crowd as the dancers busted out their best moves. That was when I saw a familiar face in the middle of the circle: Richie Miller, Coach Miller’s son. Richie had played baseball with me; it had been around two years since I had seen him.
“Richie!” I exclaimed, cutting into the circle.
“Magic!” he called back. He laughed, and we united on the dance floor, showing each other our signature moves. For the next ten minutes, we imitated our favorite dancers, cheered at each other’s moves, and sweated out all our teenage energy. The adults there looked on with a mixture of entertainment and caution—worry flashed in their eyes when our bodies hit the ground and some darted forward with concern when a dancer attempted a head spin. But for the most part, they left us alone. It was harmless, wholesome fun, and toward the end of the dance, some of us exchanged numbers and promised to get together to practice our moves. Maybe we’d even put together our own crew.
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