Scrawny Little White Kid

Scuff, slap- rubber soles of the damned. Dance is, to the young man, a means of freedom and expression. Seven years of heavy footfalls, krump was the language and rhythm was the canvas. Every man, woman and child that he met - and I swear, it was every man, woman and child that he met - needed to ask:

“You’re really a dancer?” as if appearance and gender were to dictate the practiced art of a youth-

“But isn’t that girly?” rang in his ears, day in and day out; it was constantly taunting him to partake in simple prose, the cons of his chosen form constantly handed to him on a colloquial platter of “faggot” and “twinkle-toes”.

No. Not today, he’s come too far to succumb to the half-assed remarks of those lacking resolve and dedication. If they had any clue of what hip-hop really was, they would know it was celebrated by both sexes- not just one. In fact, krump largely being male, he’s got no reason to even listen to them. They’re wrong, they’re wrong, they’re wrong!

But.. at the end of the day, when the sun no longer offered safe haven in her warm embrace and the night loomed dark and spooky, was there doubt? Was he good enough? Could he truly surpass their comments and work for what he believed in, or was he destined to fail in partaking in a culture that is so stereotypically not celebrated by people in his skin tone? Was the title of “dancer” one that belonged to a girl? Could he ever find somewhere to fit into this jigsaw of race, gender and sexuality?

He could, because he had to.

He could, because he cared.

He could, because despite every flea-bitten and irrelevant opinion by someone who watched “So You Think You Can Dance?” once and thought they’re an expert, they could never know the feeling of busting out the soles on a pair of Supras and setting them, satisfied, on the mantle as proof of dedication and endurance-

There are no rules to art. Express yourself.

This poem is about: 
My community
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