It’s been a year since I attended my first black dance party. Did I know it was a black dance party? No. Kyle, how can you say it was a black dance party? There were 4 white guys. Me, the two guys I came with, and one other white guy.
It took place in a shopping center downtown at a restaurant. Very random. Naturally I blended in like a chameleon. I strolled to the dance floor.
Dancing is funny. Based on my research, black people dance in large groups. Unfortunately, I was not in one of their groups. I tried, but that got awkward real fast. I danced by myself. Imagine a curly blonde fro in the midst of real fros. I was home. I felt the eyes of people around me. Eyes that told of disbelief, amazement and jealousy. “Why Lance, I am rather intrigued by the Caucasian- American on the dance floor. He exudes charisma, but yet remains suave and debonair as a fine young gentleman of yesteryear.” I heard a black man say to his friend.
A ruckus breaks out in the back. I just keep dancing. The music stops. The DJ makes an announcement for everyone to “be cool.” The music plays. The ruckus turns into a scuffle. “What’s with all the hubbub?” I says. The owner told everyone to go home, and that the cops were on their way. The ruckus in the back turned into a brawl that involved a lot of people. Everyone ran, and was screaming. I grabbed my one white girl friend, and all of us got outside. Suddenly everyone pours out of the doors, and there’s a fist fight. The cops pull in, everyone is still screaming and running to their cars.Rumors of guns and knives. I don’t know, but I got the heck out of dodge. Cops swarmed, I yelled “get in the car, get in the car.” And we drove home.
I was sad. I just wanted to dance. I considered doing an interpretive dance that would bring tears and peace to those in the room. They would have loved it. Instead…that did not happen. The end.