Shake what your mama gave ya

As we tumbled out of BB King’s on Beale Street after a night of celebration, a family friend said, “This may be the drinks talking, but I never saw you dance with your mother.”

I had danced with her—there’s photographic proof—but she wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t danced much that night.

There was a time when I was always the first on the dance floor. My mother tried to awaken that version of me when Bell Biv DeVoe’s “Poison” came on.

But the dancing machine would not be roused.

I could offer excuses: my age, my weight, the era of constant surveillance and online judgment. But the truth is more straightforward, and harder.

I’ve struggled to find unabashed joy these past few years. And dancing, sweaty, silly, all-in dancing, has always been my most authentic expression of that relentless, unyielding, undeniable pleasure.

One of my mantras this year is get over yourself.

Another: don’t let these motherfuckers steal your sunshine.

When I don’t dance, especially with the people I love most, I’m not honoring the goals and values I’ve set for myself.

Worse, I’m not being true to who I am.

And worst of all, I’m letting the onslaught of negativity win.

No, ma’am.

I recently caught a clip from The Grits & Eggs Podcast about the power of Black joy: how it remains both antidote and anathema to the race-based authoritarianism rising around us.

It felt like a challenge.

So with two months left in the year, let’s shake what our mamas gave us.