Unfamiliar territory. I felt nervous.
“We might be the only whites there,” I forewarned my family as my husband drove us to the other side of
town. My entire family felt nervous about attending Kawanzaa.
We spotted
our destination, an African American Presbyterian
Church, and turned into the crowded parking lot. The Fellowship Hall overflowed with animated African Americans dressed in
flowing caftans of multi-colored prints, many heads wrapped in turbans or topped with small kufi caps.
We sat spellbound through a program of ceremony, ritual, and inspired entertainment.
The finale however, demanded our attention as African dancers bobbed and swished
to the deafening beat of magnificent African drums. We stood with the audience and clapped to the beat, sitting down only
when the dancers began seeking audience participation. My 12 year old daughter raised her hand and pointed to me.
“No,
Simone,” I yanked her hand down with maternal authority, “that’s
not appropriate. This is not a white person’s dance.”
After
a moment of confusion and shuffling, I realized that my husband no longer sat with us.
“Oh,
no!” I gasped.
Too
late. Robert stood expectantly
with five other men at the front of the room. I stared at my husband, anticipating an anxious glance in my direction, his
face red with embarrassment and panic. But Robert did not look to me for a rescue.
My bespectacled
husband is conservative, a reserved member of our white American culture, a fifty-two-year-old computer nerd. He does not
dance.
I prayed
fervently for a secret trap door in the floor to open up and swallow him, an escape from approaching humiliation.
Each
pair of volunteer performers approached center stage, obviously experienced in this art of African dance. They danced with
the ease of accomplished athletes enjoying their energy. Finally, the dreaded
moment arrived. The drums paused as Robert stepped forward, removing his jacket. He took the hand of his assigned partner, and together they assumed a squatting position , the beginning pose.
The
entire hall waited in pregnant expectation.
With
a resounding staccato, the drums began their mesmerizing beat. To my surprise, Robert bounded up in an explosion of energy, his head bouncing to
the rhythm. His arms flailed while his feet kicked to the front, the side, and behind, like funk aerobics class at super speed.
A look of rapture appeared on his face as if in a state of altered consciousness. The drums had kidnapped him! As I watched
his delirious performance I realized the entire room was focused on this one white man. My white man! The clapping rose to
a tumultuous crescendo. Robert had brought the house down.
As his
performance ended, Robert faced the audience, stunned by the applause, yet looking very pleased with himself. I sat speechless
stupor. How would I ever describe this experience to his mother? What a moment!
Our
family will never forget that evening. We watched Robert take a huge risk in front of a hundred-and-fifty people becoming one with the beat of the drums. Without
any words being spoken, my children had learned a lesson of acceptance and friendship. Kwanzaa is a celebration of pride and
respect, precisely my feelings for my husband.
