Pink Tights
Pink Tights, symbolic of Nooses used to hang our ancestors. Restricting our individual color until we can no longer differentiate from who we are and who we are forced to be. Cutting off any thoughts of our beauty, choking away at our self-esteem, our self-confidence, our self-worth.
Forced assimilation into a eurocentric Mindset Of tradition. Internalizing their hatred for our Melanin translates into colorism in our own dance culture.
Insidious comments about having clean lines and smooth hair posit ideas of hatred into our psyches. Racially constructed choices voice opinions systemically biased against…me.
The ghostly presence of those long gone still exists in the recesses of each movement of my legs, turn off my head, and flick of my wrist. Hauntingly accessing my thoughts and stirring up a frenzy of self- hatred.
I rush to conceal the trauma that, unfiltered, courses through my laughter, and is used to cover up the perfect patty persona I have carefully created over the decades to mask the wounds of racism planted in my soul.
Yes, pink tights, a simple reality, Yet somehow profoundly running away with my very essence. Cutting my spirit in half so you only see the dinginess of what’s underneath those – Pink Tights.
(The history of dance tights is that it is supposed to create one line from fingertips to toes, making the person one cohesive color. Dancers of color have had to wear pink tights because of tradition and racism, but we aren’t pink. This is part of my diversity issue)
Stylus 