The White Boy Shuffle

Let it first be said that I am nowhere close to being a beast on the dance floor. I've spent more than ten years crafting a series of dances that keep me safe from immediate clowning and ridicule when cutting a rug. But there are some poor souls who are far worse off than I. And many of them happen to be Caucasian.

After appearing as a guest on my Spelman schoolmate and general homie Shani Jamila's show, Blackademics(www.wpfw.org, DC's 89.3FM) I found myself in Adams Morgam for a quick bite with her and The Sondai at Bukom. A West African joint that embraces many cultures throughout the Diaspora, I once stood on its stage at 16 and read poetry with the infamous Kenny Carroll back when it first opened. Almost 17 years later it's still standing and menu is pretty alright. But this is not about Bukom. This is about the White Boy.

It's reggae night. The band is on the display window stage going through every standard known to man. There's that booming bass, the simple by hynotic guitar line and cool vocal stylings of the rasta who wears his sunglasseses at night. Back in the day any white boy in this kind of place would have known the rules before he came to the door. But this dude and his date were just way out of pocket.

It's painful watching him throw his head back when he thinks he's in a groove, attempting to wind his stiff hips to an audience of one as if the entire room isn't watch. I mean who messes up grinding when you're really into it? As Shani and Sondai were forced to look on, losing their appetites as this guy paraded right in front of our table for more than a half hour, I was lucky to be seated with my back to him. Yet even then his very energy was calling to the rude boy within me, a he who wanted nothing more than to smash my water glass over the chap's head and watch him fall to the ground like a sack of bricks writhing in pain. At least then I would have had a clear view of the band.

But cooler heads prevailed. As I was out and about for the first time in a few days, I was glad to be in the company of beautiful women and to have graced the mic in the same radio station where my Dad once had a show so many years before. As I came home with the taste of hot wings still on my lips and a rack of episodes of Clone Wars to watch, I found myself reminded of all that's going on behind the scenes.

I have these ties with Jamaica right now, througth the music, through my novel and through the plate of chicken right in front of me, though they don't you give you plantains that the spot down here close to the crib. I miss Fulton Street. I miss Kris and Rich and Negarra and Ifaniyi. But looking back only turns you into salt and those I know that those I hold dearest will see me again. It's all about timing. It's all about destiny. Out.