Take Her Man

“And one, and two, and three, and four, turn, turn, seven, and eight,” I counted, going over a dance routine with Shanika, one of the girls at Kids In Motion. An adorable eleven-year-old with big brown eyes, Shanika was what I would have to call a “challenged” dancer. I swear the girl didn’t know right from left, and that was probably because she had two left feet. Basically, Ms. Shanika had the grace of a chimpanzee in water. I’d had to move her to the back of the studio the first week of class for fear she’d harm someone or herself. Most days she had to stay after class to catch up to the other girls. And that was no problem for me, because while the other students made fun of Shanika, I really enjoyed having her in the class. She worked harder than anyone else did and she took two buses to get to the center from the housing project in the Bronx where she lived.

“No, it’s up with the right and down with the left on the next count,” I said, correcting Shanika’s flailing arms. “Up and down with your right arm on four and then turn.” Bewildered and praying Ms. Shanika would get the move sometime during this lifetime, I looked up at the clock to see that it was twenty minutes after class time.

“Like this, Ms. Smith?” Shanika asked, doing everything I’d said in reverse. She smiled sweetly and did it wrong again. Sometimes the child surprised me with how she could change and rearrange every single dance step I taught her within seconds of me teaching it. But she had determination—I couldn’t deny that.

“Relax, Shanika,” I said, stopping her. “You know it. I know you do. Just think about every step and then let it all out.”

“I just can’t get it. I’m stupid.” She looked at herself in the mirror.

“You’re not stupid and you can get it.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You already got it,” she said, looking toward my reflection in the mirror behind her. “And you’re pretty. Not me.”

“What do you mean, Shanika? You don’t think you’re pretty? I think you’re pretty.”

“You ain’t gotta lie, Ms. Smith. I know I’m ugly. Everybody says it. I’m too dark, I got big lips, and I’m ugly. Even my mother says it.”

“What did she say?” I asked, surprised and angry with what I was hearing. It was hard for me to imagine any mother telling her child she was ugly. But really, it was closer to home than I wanted to admit, and I was sure Shanika’s mother was no match for the color whipping Grandma Lucy had put on my mother. “What did she say?” I asked again. Shanika was silent. She just shook her head. “Well, you don’t have to answer that, then,” I said, stooping next to her. She was wearing a pink leotard and matching jazz shoes she

’d had to sell God knows how many chocolate bars to buy last year at our fund-raiser. “But tell me, do you think moms can be wrong sometimes?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Then maybe your mommy is wrong this time. You know why I believe that?” Shanika shook her head no and looked at me with her eyes wide. “Because I think you’re beautiful and I don’t think you’re too dark either.” I turned her back toward the mirror so she could see herself. “I think you’re just right.” It was one of those moments at the settlement that made me understand why I was there and doing exactly what I was doing. I had to hold back my tears because I wanted Shanika to know that I was serious about what I was saying. I wanted her to know that and I wanted my mother to know it, too.

“Now, I need you to believe in yourself, Shanika. Not what anyone else says about you, but what you know you’re capable of. Right?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Exactly. Just relax and let it flow. Breathe. I told you that’s what dance is all about—breathe and let it flow from within your center.” I pulled her to the middle of the floor. “Now take a deep breath and take it from one.” I turned on the music and stood behind Shanika in the mirror. “Watch yourself.” The music started and Shanika froze at first, but she caught on at the second count and did the rest of the dance as if she’d choreographed it herself. “Wonderful, Shanika,” I said, turning off the CD when she was done. I bent down and gave her one of the big old bear hugs my father always gave me when he picked me up from dance class. “You looked beautiful,” I whispered in her ear, just as he would have. “Beautiful.”

I heard clapping coming from the back of the room and turned to see Christian Kyle standing in the doorway.

“Wonderful,” Kyle said, still clapping. He stepped into the studio.

“Thank you.” Shanika smiled nervously.

“Shanika, this is my friend, Reverend Hall,” I said, trying to hide my confusion and wondering what in the heck he was doing at the studio. I was supposed to meet him in front of the park at 6 P.M. for the jazz concert. It was only 5:15 P.M. and the last time I checked, the park was over ten blocks away from settlement.

“Hi, Reverend Hall,” Shanika said, flirting with Kyle in her innocent eleven-year-old way. It wasn’t every day that handsome black men could be found walking around the settlement.

“And Reverend Hall, this is Shanika Lewis, one of my best dancers,” I said. Shanika looked at me like I was crazy as Kyle bowed to her. She was smiling from ear to ear and to my surprise, she crossed her legs and did a perfect curtsy for him. Now, I sure don’t remember seeing her do that before.

“God bless you.” Kyle smiled. “You’re indeed a great dancer.”

“Thank you,” Shanika said, running to the back of the room to get her things.

“Don’t run,” I called to her. She grabbed her things and raced back to the door. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Bye,” she said, waving past me at Kyle as she headed out the door.

“Cute,” Kyle said when she was gone.

“‘Cute’? What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting me at the park at six.”

“I wanted to see you.” Kyle looked almost as bad as Shanika with a grade-school crush. His face was sporting a permanent smile and he kept winking at me. The man’s nose was wide open and anyone passing by could see it. I was quite embarrassed for him, but it just the ego boost I needed. But I couldn’t just let it go on.

“Look, Kyle, we said we’re just going to be friends.” I stuffed my radio into a locker at the back of the studio. “I told you I was trying to work things out with someone.”