Footsteps
A din of chatter and traffic noise swallows up the hollow sound of my sneakers treading the pavement. Amid the swarm of faces on the sidewalk, I am almost inconspicuous. I get occasional glances, some more welcoming than others, some filled with curiosity, and some as hostile as the hot sun on my neck. It does not matter to me. In a few seconds I cease to exist in their minds as they resume their ruminations.
I saunter towards the graffiti covered door sandwiched between the Fields Corner Library and Magic Wok Takeout. Up the stairs is the Dorchester Youth Collaborative, a far cry from the reading room of the library next door. I got used to the plaster paint chips crashing from the ceiling and to the broken floorboards creaking beneath me. Here, I feel like I belong; I feel like my footsteps are heard. They certainly are, because the creaking brings my presence to the attention of other teenagers lounging in the arcade room. They nonchalantly nod to me. I snake my way to the back room, drop my bag on the salvaged remains of a kitchen counter, and plug my iPod into a pair of speakers. September by Earth, Wind & Fire instantly blasts across the room, replacing the chaos of the street below. I bounce to the funk music, my feet snap into motion, and my body follows suit.
My eyes close and my mind clears, I drift into an ecstatic state of consciousness. I let the melody carry my body to the floor and, as my feet swiftly shuffle, the only thing connecting me to reality is the coldness of the floor on my hands. Breakdancing becomes a refuge for me, a place where my footsteps echo with passion. In the six minutes and thirty two seconds of the track playing, I am awake, alive, and aware. My freestyle moves are highlighted by the sound my sneakers generate against the floor. Even with the ear-damaging volume of the song, I find myself listening to the symphony that my sneakers create as they synchronize with the smack of the snare drum.
Growing up, I struggled with uncovering my innate gifts. I felt less than average, because even average people have talent. What did I have? Nothing. I followed in others' footsteps, hoping, wanting to become like them. The list of things I attempted went on and on. I tried rapping, drawing, soccer, rock climbing, and piano lessons. I strove to be a Renaissance man and ended up a jack of all trades, master of none. It was not until I discovered breakdancing that I began to think of myself as talented. With breakdancing, I found my forte. I danced, I practiced, I improved, I lived. A support system of fellow dancers soon followed. At the Dorchester Youth Collaborative, I found an accepting group of dancers who valued the individuality needed in this style of dance, but who also provided a nurturing environment where we were able to enhance each others' styles. They helped me find my own rhythm, they helped me discover myself, and the beanie caps made me feel wicked cool. As my dancing improved, my self confidence soared. Who would have thought that breakdancing would become the cornerstone in my life?
Now, as I walk home, I still get those intermittent glances. Some are welcoming, some seem hostile. It does not matter to me. In a few seconds I cease to exist in their minds, and they cease to exist in mine. Preoccupying me now is the hollow sound of my sneakers against the pavement, and no longer invisible, I harmonize with its inner rhythm. My rhythm.
A din of chatter and traffic noise swallows up the hollow sound of my sneakers treading the pavement. Amid the swarm of faces on the sidewalk, I am almost inconspicuous. I get occasional glances, some more welcoming than others, some filled with curiosity, and some as hostile as the hot sun on my neck. It does not matter to me. In a few seconds I cease to exist in their minds as they resume their ruminations.
I saunter towards the graffiti covered door sandwiched between the Fields Corner Library and Magic Wok Takeout. Up the stairs is the Dorchester Youth Collaborative, a far cry from the reading room of the library next door. I got used to the plaster paint chips crashing from the ceiling and to the broken floorboards creaking beneath me. Here, I feel like I belong; I feel like my footsteps are heard. They certainly are, because the creaking brings my presence to the attention of other teenagers lounging in the arcade room. They nonchalantly nod to me. I snake my way to the back room, drop my bag on the salvaged remains of a kitchen counter, and plug my iPod into a pair of speakers. September by Earth, Wind & Fire instantly blasts across the room, replacing the chaos of the street below. I bounce to the funk music, my feet snap into motion, and my body follows suit.
My eyes close and my mind clears, I drift into an ecstatic state of consciousness. I let the melody carry my body to the floor and, as my feet swiftly shuffle, the only thing connecting me to reality is the coldness of the floor on my hands. Breakdancing becomes a refuge for me, a place where my footsteps echo with passion. In the six minutes and thirty two seconds of the track playing, I am awake, alive, and aware. My freestyle moves are highlighted by the sound my sneakers generate against the floor. Even with the ear-damaging volume of the song, I find myself listening to the symphony that my sneakers create as they synchronize with the smack of the snare drum.
Growing up, I struggled with uncovering my innate gifts. I felt less than average, because even average people have talent. What did I have? Nothing. I followed in others' footsteps, hoping, wanting to become like them. The list of things I attempted went on and on. I tried rapping, drawing, soccer, rock climbing, and piano lessons. I strove to be a Renaissance man and ended up a jack of all trades, master of none. It was not until I discovered breakdancing that I began to think of myself as talented. With breakdancing, I found my forte. I danced, I practiced, I improved, I lived. A support system of fellow dancers soon followed. At the Dorchester Youth Collaborative, I found an accepting group of dancers who valued the individuality needed in this style of dance, but who also provided a nurturing environment where we were able to enhance each others' styles. They helped me find my own rhythm, they helped me discover myself, and the beanie caps made me feel wicked cool. As my dancing improved, my self confidence soared. Who would have thought that breakdancing would become the cornerstone in my life?
Now, as I walk home, I still get those intermittent glances. Some are welcoming, some seem hostile. It does not matter to me. In a few seconds I cease to exist in their minds, and they cease to exist in mine. Preoccupying me now is the hollow sound of my sneakers against the pavement, and no longer invisible, I harmonize with its inner rhythm. My rhythm.