Hiphopopotami

Every Saturday, I take a hop hop dance class, the diversity of which has only been replicated in liberal arts college brochures. As I work on my crip walk and my scuba hop with a skill level that can best be described as "flaily," a woman scrutinizes and dismisses me with a backward glance and a head shake. The glance says, "Hah!" while the head shake says, "Pitiful." She then executes a flawless body wave followed by a chest pop in my direction. It's a challenge.

I do not respond to this sign of dominance, for I am more confident of my imminent defeat than my moves. And I am terrified. However, I did not think defeat would be at the hands of this particular booty bouncer, a tiny 70-something Asian granny, perfectly coiffed in a leotard, flowered shorts and jazz shoes. With the same resolve she uses to elbow her way from the back to the front of a crowded bus stop line, she dominates the hip hop hierarchy of the class. 

Of course, there are other notable figures. The coterie of gay men perform crisp and precise choreography honed from years of Beyonce study, while the Latina ladies have hips that glide independently from the rest of their bodies. The black women own all their moves – and rightfully so.

My counterpart in class is a whirling dervish of a woman who everyone avoids, mostly because we fear being struck by her flying limbs. I call her “So You Think You Can Dance?” The answer in her mind is clearly “Yes,” but the rest of us are not so sure. SYTYCD brings her own pink towel to dab her forehead between dances, and has a water bottle that reads “Live, breathe, dance.” She also integrates a treasure trove of facial expressions into her own, special choreography, including “Pouty Thug,” “Lost Contact Lens,” “Granny’s Face” (a tribute, not an insult), and, in a painful combination of cheer and come hither, “When I Meet The Bachelor.” Her enthusiasm is admirable. Her moves deserve a medal for participating.

But to Granny, we are all merely pests and she will high kick all of us the hell out of her way, which I suspect is how she escaped North Korea.

I do not claim to be proficient in hip hop, especially for someone who counts “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo” as a favorite film. But, if I stand in the back row behind Granny, coveting her perfect kick/cross step/ball changes (and ignoring her attempts to sabotage me by changing up the choreography), I catch on. But I know my place. It’s ten feet behind Granny - unless I want an arm wave to the face.