I am a breakdancer
Rhythm and tempo are the chains that bind my soul, for I am a servant of sound. Blast some music, and I can tell a story. I scrutinize songs, looking for new ways to interpret their beats. I am a Hip-Hop historian, fluent in the repertoire of Big Daddy Kane, The Roots, and
Rakim. My iPod is a melting pot, with tracks ranging from 80s funk to the latest pop hits.
With or without my diverse collection of music playing in the background, a five-second handstand is accolade-worthy to bystanders, but not to me. I can disprove Newton’s laws by suspending my body in the air on one elbow and redefine motion by hopping in circles on one hand. I crave spins, whether on the palm of my hand or on the back of my shoulders. I write with my right hand, but rotate with my left.
The hallway behind the high school store is a second home for my crewmates and me. I train as hard as any athlete, and the floor of that hallway, covered with skid-marks from my
Nikes, can attest to such a claim. Large open spaces are my best friends, and carpet is my worst enemy. Where there’s a smooth surface and ample space, there will be music roaring from my portable speakers.
I am a klutz in gym class and an assassin on the dance floor. I can identify every move in the film Step Up 3D, I dream of appearing on MTV, and I confess to busting moves to the theme song of Pokemon. I cannot go a day without hearing the phrase “show me your moves!” Friends beg me to reveal my technique; adults remind me of the importance of safety, and children ask me if I’m a robot.
Through my movements I channel my creative desires; I strive to invent, whether in the classroom or on the floor. My experimentation is a fuel for spontaneous combinations and insightful discussion. I am on a perpetual quest for ideas, taking pride in my innovations while using the world as my inspiration.
My ability augments my growth as an individual; countless hours spent on mastering
moves
Rakim. My iPod is a melting pot, with tracks ranging from 80s funk to the latest pop hits.
With or without my diverse collection of music playing in the background, a five-second handstand is accolade-worthy to bystanders, but not to me. I can disprove Newton’s laws by suspending my body in the air on one elbow and redefine motion by hopping in circles on one hand. I crave spins, whether on the palm of my hand or on the back of my shoulders. I write with my right hand, but rotate with my left.
The hallway behind the high school store is a second home for my crewmates and me. I train as hard as any athlete, and the floor of that hallway, covered with skid-marks from my
Nikes, can attest to such a claim. Large open spaces are my best friends, and carpet is my worst enemy. Where there’s a smooth surface and ample space, there will be music roaring from my portable speakers.
I am a klutz in gym class and an assassin on the dance floor. I can identify every move in the film Step Up 3D, I dream of appearing on MTV, and I confess to busting moves to the theme song of Pokemon. I cannot go a day without hearing the phrase “show me your moves!” Friends beg me to reveal my technique; adults remind me of the importance of safety, and children ask me if I’m a robot.
Through my movements I channel my creative desires; I strive to invent, whether in the classroom or on the floor. My experimentation is a fuel for spontaneous combinations and insightful discussion. I am on a perpetual quest for ideas, taking pride in my innovations while using the world as my inspiration.
My ability augments my growth as an individual; countless hours spent on mastering
moves