NYC-Feature Story

Seizure Boy Learns to
6-Step
A White Guy Looks For The Rhythm

By Mark Stumer

Dancing. Seems harmless, right? Wrong! For millions of (White) people, dancing is one of the most dangerous things you can do.

About the only part of a White guy's body with rhythm is his feet. Why else would they invent Riverdance?

But, I've never been happy just nodding to the beat and using lightning-fast ankles like most other White guys. So last year, I thought to myself, "I am a leader, damn it! And by God, I will be a dancer! A good dancer!" Then maybe everyone could forget my dark, sordid past…

There was a time (from birth until last year) when I couldn't dance worth a damn. I used to get on the dance floor and try to get into the rhythm, but it didn't work. One time, someone actually tried to call a doctor because they thought I was having a seizure out there!

I Had to Get Some Skills

I'd say my dancing skills were crappy, but that would be too much of an insult to crap. My friends would laugh at me about my lack of rhythm every day. You could always find where I was by listening for shouts of, "Yo! Seizure boy! That a dance, or you havin' back problems?!"

I knew what I had to do: I had to get some rhythm and dancing skills, and get them fast.

I ended up learning to breakdance. While I was working as a camp counselor the summer before last, I met two other counselors who were into music and dancing. They would put on little shows at the campgrounds, with Matt beatboxing (using his voice to imitate bass beats), while Jamie breakdanced. It looked cool as all hell, and I asked them if they could teach me a few tricks.

They agreed to it, and I started learning the basics. I was feeling pretty good while Jamie and Matt showed me the moves. I worked with them every day at their apartment in Queens.

A Painful Experience

It was hard, it was rough and it was painful-watching me try to get the moves right, that is. I was making the walls look like they had rhythm. I could barely even six-step (one of the most basic moves, where you make a circle with your legs in six steps) without busting my ass. I was seriously starting to think that being called "seizure boy" wasn't such a bad thing.

Luckily, I was used to sucking at dancing, or I would've quit pretty fast. Jamie and Matt tried to encourage me the way good teachers should:

"No! Not like that!"

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Oh my God, you suck!"

"What were we smoking when we said we'd help you?"

With glowing praise like that, how could I fail? I kept on going. One thought kept running through my head: There's no way I'm going through senior year as "seizure boy."

Let There Be Rhythm

One day, about a month after I started, something happened: I got rhythm! I could move to the beat and drop into position for moves without looking like I broke a bone on the way down. I had learned to six-step, and then went on to harder things: the worm, the turtle, the windmill, even head spins.

I was proud of myself for finally getting things right, and Jamie and Matt were glad they could look me in the eyes without cracking up.

Once I learned most of the basics (I still can't do even a halfway decent head spin), I was ready to show off my skills, and get rid of that "seizure boy" thing.

The Big Dance

At my school, there was a dance a week or so before Christmas, billed as "the last dance of the millennium." All of my friends were going, and I had to hear all the usual crap about how bad my dancing was. I just ignored them and told them to keep their eyes open.

At the dance, a few people were already break-

dancing, so I casually said, "I could do that, I just don't feel like it." No one believed me, of course, and they told me I'd have to prove it.

After a few minutes, the dance floor was mostly clear, and a song with a good beat ("Hate Me Now" by Nas) came on. I thought I might mess up, but I figured they were already laughing at me all the time, so what's one more dance? So I went out there and did my stuff. I did my basics and even a few tricks.

When I was done, I think everyone in the room's jaws were hanging wide open. I heard someone ask someone else, "Was that spaz boy?"

I turned and said, "It's 'seizure boy' and you're damn right it was me." I held my head up high and walked out the door…right before I collapsed.

More Pain

My arms, legs, neck and head were killing me! I'd jammed two toes on the windmill, strained my neck going into a headstand and kicked an arm out from under myself doing the six-step.

Still, the next day, my efforts were rewarded. All my friends called me up to congratulate me, and I even got a new nickname. After more than four months of practicing dancing, "seizure boy" was dead, long live... "breakdancing seizure boy."

The experience, and the accompanying pain, taught me a few things.

First, White people do have rhythm, but it's not worth finding.

Second, never let anyone pressure you into doing something. It's not worth the tears, screams and headaches that whoever is helping you will suffer trying to teach you.

And finally, I'm glad I proved I can dance, but I would've been a hell of a lot happier if I'd had an ice pack afterwards.