These Here Breaks Will Rock Your Shoes

“You still gotta teach me how to do those baby windmills!” Zach said.  “Those are so cool!”

            “Yeah man, you can get ‘em,” I tell him.

            “Have you been breaking much lately?” Zach asked me.

            “Nah not really,” I told him.  “I’ve been pretty busy with work and school.”

            “Dude you gotta keep up with it man,” He said.  “You could be famous some day.”

I’ve never been that great at expressing myself.  I wasn’t shy, but I was always quiet; I never really had anything to say.  Breakdancing gave me an escape.  I never had to say anything when I danced.  All I had to do was listen and react.  Listen to the music, listen to my body, listen to the crowd.  React!  It was natural.  There were no rules other than to try to defy the rules.  Defy gravity, defy convention, defy the limits that your body has tried to set in place for you.  I listened, I reacted, I defied.  I did it all to hear the gratification of the crowd recognizing my existence.  To confirm that I was alive.

The auditorium was full.  Our set was going great.  The crowd was clapping to the beat, and everybody was on point.  The “ooohs,” “ahhhs,” and “WOAHS,” from the crowd, and from us, filled me with so much adrenaline.  The butterflies had vanished and the shake in my legs was gone, so I was ready for the big finale.  Michael started his set, and then quickly called me up to him. 

He wrapped me in a bear hug from behind my back.  He spun me clockwise, and the crowd didn’t know what to think.  My legs elevated in front of me as we spun, and I held my arms close so that Michael could spin me as fast as he could.  We got up to speed, and Michael directed me around his body.  He lifted his right leg in a large step and swung my entire body in between his legs.  Michael quickly switched legs, and my body followed through to the other side.  Michael guided my legs as high as he could take them and brought my body back around in front of him.  Michael carried me up under his right arm as he brought me across, and gave one final heave to send me flying through the air.

            My legs opened, and my eyes swiftly found my landing spot.  I brought my arms in front of me to catch myself to begin my windmills.  My left hand felt the floor, and my right quickly followed.  My left leg stayed high, and my right swooped under it to begin rotating.  All I could hear was the screaming gratification of the crowd.  I did a few fast windmills to dazzle them, and then shot up to spin on my head in a dizzying flurry that sent the auditorium into a frenzy. 

We were the only standing ovation of the night.

The “Breaking Room” escalated my dancing from a go home-and-practice-by-myself-after-school hobby into a full-fledged part of who I was.  Lunch hour was full of students sitting up in the small corner next to the side entrance of the small gym of East High School.  The green tiled floor was perfectly capable of maintaining a back spin, head spin, shoulder spin, hand spin, and all other sorts of spins.  Fridays during lunch was a time for battling.  There were challenges called out, rankings created, friendships and rivalries formed, and it all occurred within the red brick walls and push-bar glass filled doors of the Breaking Room. 

It’s my first year of breakdancing, and I can’t learn how to do windmills.  It’s been months.  Stab, cock back, swing, kick, spin, roll up, catch, repeat.  That’s what I was told to do, but it made no difference.  Making your body do what your mind hears is a ridiculous notion.  I just can’t do the “roll up.”  I can stab, that’s easy.  Right elbow stabbed firmly into gut, check.  Cocking back was easy to, and made a big difference in my momentum.  Cock back counter clockwise to spin better clockwise.  Swinging was awkward for a while, but I got the hang of it.  Kicking didn’t take too long to figure out, left leg up, right leg under.  Spinning is fun.  I can spin fast, slow, high, and low.  Right leg comes up; left leg starts to go under.  Rolling up.  How can I roll up when my left leg brought me down?  I don’t think my body is right for this.  I’m too tall, and my legs are too gangly.  Maybe I could learn other things instead of windmills.  I’ve seen plenty of b-boys that don’t do windmills.  Don’t kid yourself Chris, windmills look so cool, my mind tells me.  Damn it, I’m right. 

I first saw Slim break at “The Renaissance.”  It was a small local battle, and he was a big shot Red Bull sponsored b-boy from Minneapolis.  His button up yellow plaid shirt, studded belt, tight stretching jeans, and white Adidas running shoes would have looked awkward on all others, but for him he made it look like the coolest outfit in the world.  He was the best b-boy at the battle for sure, but I didn’t like him because he could do airflares better than everyone else.  Everything he did was so smooth and funky.  His legs weren’t in perfect form when he flew in all sorts of directions.  They dangled, hung, and curled, but he made it look so much better that way.  It was his own style, and own it he did.  His dancing showed me that it didn’t matter how you performed your moves, but all that mattered was that you performed them in a way that accented who you are.

Dean and I have been practicing for hours.  Jason had come and gone, and a few of the younger guys stopped by the studio for a little while, but we are all that remains of practice for the day.  I’m working on combining some of my power moves together, and he’s trying to perfect his windmill variations.  We’re both in our prime, so we’re not too wasted yet.

Sweat drips from our faces as we call out different moves, combinations, and styles the other should try out.  I tell him I want to see him do some UFOs.  He gets down and quickly spins in circles on his hands with his legs slightly spread.  He lasts a few rounds until his feet start scraping the ground, and he loses his momentum.  He gets up and tells me to do as many flares as I can.  I place my right hand on the ground, and step back with my right leg.  I sweep my right leg under my left so that they both kick up into the air and start swinging around my body.  I manage eight flares before I fall.  My record is twelve, but I’m happy with eight, especially after all the breaking we’ve done today.  We keep going back and forth with 1990s, airchairs, hollowbacks, halos, and all the other moves we can think of until we can barely stand. 

Recently I went to an event here in Des Moines.  It wasn’t a battle.  The host, an old friend of mine, simply called the event a “jam.”  It was just a bunch of b-boys and b-girls getting down and having a good time.  All of the Iowa b-boy generations showed up.  Dean and I went to represent our old crew Bad Boy, our old friendly rivals the Floor Spiders were there, as were The Distinctive Nobodies turned All Out Kids from Iowa City, the young guns from SuckaPunch in Ames, and the new local Des Moines generation that called themselves Jedi Floor Trickz, among others that I didn’t know because I’ve been in and out of the game for the past few years.

I represented myself well.  Most of the b-boys and b-girls there knew who I was, and gave me the respect deserved of a b-boy elder.  The atmosphere of the jam compelled me to call upon my younger self, and I displayed moves that I had long thought were extinct to me.  I shook off the rust that had formed over the months since I last got down, and did what came natural.  The event brought me back to a time when breakdancing was simple.  Just dance.  No pressure.