In general, I try not to indulge in this line of thought. Because if black people, as a whole, are better than whites at dancing, then it follows that we must be worse than whites at something.
Like thinking. Or speaking. Or reading.
You get the idea.
But this isn't the time for that. TNC, maybe with tongue in cheek, strikes upon an interesting theory:
Dude, do you know how this happens? When you're like two, at family dinners, the old folks drag out the kids and then make them dance. Seriously, mo-fos can sometimes keep a beat before they can talk--or around the same time. If I took a kid from Helsinki and raised him like that, he'd be able to dance too. It's tragic and hilarious all at once. And so, ultimately, just human.In my personal experience, there may be something to this - or not.
Before I was old enough to know any better, my mother would lead my aunts or uncles or her friends into my bedroom, put Janet Jackson's "Control" on the record player and encourage me to bust a move. This happened a lot.
But even with all that experience, I'm something of a mediocre dancer today. I can keep a beat. I can summon a little rhythm. I once could do the Kid N' Play and Hammer and Running Man and the Cabbage Patch with ease. I won't embarrass the First Lady at parties or nightclubs.
Anything else, and I'm drifting out of my lane.
All that said, here's something that my mother turned to whenever she wanted a little sweetfeet from the kid. Young and dumb doesn't even begin to describe me.
Post-script: From 1984 to 1993, no woman had a hold on my heart and prepubescent imagination like Janet. Ms. Jackson, since I was nasty.