My original plan was for my next blog post to be a deep and philosophical journey of cultural discovery and enlightenment examining and uncovering the differences in “chillness” between the two countries in which I have resided this year. However, I just returned from a hip-hop audition and my experience there has become significantly more important.
Thing you should know about me if you don’t: I have had absolutely no formal hip-hop training in my life. My extensive dance resume includes tap, ballet, and jazz classes from approximately 2001-2004 in which I vividly remember thinking Miss Lisa had some unknown powers of sorcery because she knew that I could see two of her when I was crossing my eyes. (I have since learned that the activity of crossing one’s eyes is quite visibly obvious to any onlookers.) The rest of my dance experience includes choreographing a hip-hop duet for a charity event in high school to a song titled “I Don’t Dance” (the irony) from High School Musical 2 (ask me how I got roped into that, I truly don’t know) and a quick dabble in Korean hip-hop this past February in Vanderbilt’s Asian New Year Festival cultural showcase.
With this wealth of experience and expertise, I decided to attend the free hip-hop class the dance society held last week due to the general joy I feel when participating in “breaking it down” and other related activities. The class was crowded with, much to my dismay, many actual, experienced hip-hoppers who were quite good at their craft. We learned a “simple” (the instructor’s words, not mine) combination that I just couldn’t quite grasp no matter how many times he repeated it. After an hour of popping and locking, I was still no more successful at the routine than when I had begun and yet I was surrounded by UCD’s best and brightest (at least with regards to busting a move). "Impressive" is too meager a word to describe these masters of funk in which I had found myself immersed.
So, naturally, my logical next step was to turn up for auditions to be part of the competitive company. My friend Kira and I debated going to the audition or trying out a practice with the trampolining team, and ultimately decided to go the hip-hop route. Which is where, four paragraphs later, our story begins.
My first question to myself in my last-minute preparations for this audition was: what does one wear to seem like she’s trendy and cool, but in a low-key way that appears as though she’s not trying to be, for her hip-hop audition? Unfortunately 1) I’m not even marginally cool enough that I would know the answer to such a question and 2) even if I did, my wardrobe wouldn’t include an outfit that would suffice. Let’s just say, all of my “staple pieces” (you know, the ones that are just “classic Cassidy”) have come from either my dad’s closet or a thrift store.
So, I went with my classic “I’m going to work out but I also want to look like a functional member of society” outfit: a white v-neck (I’d like to think the v adds a hint of “cool”), my favorite running shorts, and my old running shoes (pretty bulky dark purple guys with neon green laces). I tried to wear my hair in one of those half-up buns that are kinda trendy, but it kept falling out, so a simple ponytail had to suffice.
Kira and I showed up amongst a tangle of European gals decked out in sleeveless sweatshirts, jeggings, (who knew those were still in production? Maybe a trend that just took a few years to make its way across the Atlantic?) Adidas sneakers, hoop earrings, and other, edgier, articles of clothing. I slowly started to wish I had worn my joggers, aka the one piece of trendy clothing I own and, coincidentally, the one fashion trend I helped to initiate. (Junior year of high school, I wore joggers. Senior year of high school, everyone wore joggers. Coincidence? I think not.)
As I filled out the form (pausing slightly at the question “What is your performance experience and background?”), got my number, and had my picture taken, it started to occur to me how grossly under qualified I was to be at this audition. I felt rather insufficient; these people were not messing around. However, I kicked butt during warm-ups: I stretched towards the ceiling like a champion; my arm circles were extremely round; and I jogged in place more accurately than any other girl there. (Probably because I was wearing my running shoes and not just some “hip kicks” fresh out of H&M or wherever cool Europeans shop.) My confidence started to build as I assured myself that what I lacked in experience, I would surely make up for in enthusiasm and rapid choreographic learning. And then the music started.
My lack of skill quickly became glaringly obvious as many of the girls around me picked up the moves right away while I popped at every lock. As soon as I thought I had mastered (using the term loosely in this context) one move, seven more were added and I fell back into my hopeless pit of confusion. No matter how many times I asked to review a move or practiced in front of the mirror during water breaks, I simply could not keep up with the should-be Chris Brown music video stars surrounding me.
Accepting the fact that maybe the UCD hip-hop competition crew may not be my calling this semester, I reflected on my claims to fame of hip-hop performances past to see if I could come up with a power move to set myself apart. During the previously mentioned charity event in high school, Anthony and I had a pretty mediocre routine going on until the very end, when we crossed each other on the stage whilst doing the worm. It was a crowd pleaser to say the least and, if I’m being honest, probably the only time anyone applauded during the entire number.
I contemplated pulling it out of my admittedly shallow bag of tricks in a last-ditch effort to appeal to the perfectly made-up Irish divas wielding the power of my potential acceptance into the company. For better or for worse, I ultimately decided that unfortunately, 9:30 pm on a Tuesday in the small dance studio in the fitness center was simply neither the time nor the place for such a move, so I accepted the inevitable. I continued to “get jiggy with it” with all my heart and forgot pretty much all of the choreography by the last run through.
All this to say, I left tonight’s events with two major revelations. (other than the excitement that came along with narrating this journey via blog. I’m a blogger now; it’s what I do.) First of all, watching people who are stupid good at dancing is ridiculously fun and energizing and makes me want to be a stupid good dancer. Second of all, I have decided that I don’t like the philosophical cliché that asks, “What would you do if you knew you could not fail?” Instead, I would like to pose the question “What would you do if you knew you would fail?” Like maybe the answer shouldn’t be “skydiving” or “kidney donation” or “saving a child from a burning building” but maybe the answer could be “trying out for something for which I am totally unqualified”.
Did I fail to make the hip-hop crew? The answer to that rhetorical question was confirmed by a cheerful-but-firm email I received earlier today. But did I get to learn a fun dance and bond with a new friend and ogle at the skill and passion of others? I’d say so. It wasn’t super comfortable but it made for an entertaining story and I had fun. Failure and inadequacy can be cool because they can help to highlight the amazing attributes that others have and I lack. Who knows, maybe next week I’ll try out for the choir. On second thought, nobody wants that (my utter lack of singing abilities require a story for another day); maybe I’ll head to trampolining practice instead.