Through the 1970s, music production was built with a band in mind. That gave a truer sound and set the atmosphere for live performance. Fast-forward to late 1979: the sounds started changing, and social dances started to change with them.

That shift has a marker you can point to — and it happened in our own state. In 1979, a small label in Englewood, New Jersey, called Sugar Hill Records put out "Rapper's Delight" by the Sugarhill Gang. It was the first rap single to reach the Billboard Top 40, and it is widely credited as the record that carried hip-hop out of the block party and onto radios across the country. Hip-hop was born in the Bronx, but the record industry that turned it into a movement started right here in New Jersey.

My teenage years brought a bigger sense of belonging and self-discovery. I found that, just like in the '70s, music still had a special effect on my spirit. Hearing it was not enough — I felt there had to be a way to connect with the music, and dance was the portal. For most of my childhood I was quiet and shy; I mostly communicated with people I was familiar with. And just like those younger days, watching my favorite TV shows was still the thing to do. New dance styles were being shown on Soul Train and other TV dance shows of the time. But locally, a new dance craze had suddenly hit the streets of urban communities. The music had established an identity called Hip-Hop, and the dance styles fell under it.

Soul Train matters to this part of the story: for a lot of us, the TV screen was the first place we saw a move before it ever reached our block. It was a national dance floor you could study from your living room.

The desire to dance was born. The combination of rap and electro-funk — songs like Kraftwerk's "Trans-Europe Express" — had a strong musical and cultural impact. We were hearing sounds we had never heard before. It was interesting and shocking at the same time.

That instinct was right on the money. Kraftwerk's "Trans-Europe Express" (1977) became one of the foundations of the electro sound; a few years later its melody would be rebuilt into "Planet Rock" (1982) using the new Roland TR-808 drum machine. That cold, futuristic, electronic pulse is exactly the "sound we never heard before" that was pulling dancers in a new direction.

The musical vibe and cultural movement were so strong that they easily activated the desire to dance as a form of call-and-response. The tempo was set to new speeds, and the new sounds commanded a reply. It was clear that a new creative energy had been born. For some of us, when the music called, we answered. In my case, I watched others in my community interpret the sounds and songs they were hearing and feeling. It became clear that I was being drawn out, so I began to practice what I saw.

Most of the time, when music played at block parties, you'd see small crowds forming circles to see what the dancer was doing. Those circles became the early stages and platforms people used to start their journeys of self-expression and self-discovery. So there were three forms of inspiration for me: the music, the dance shows on TV, and the local dance circles.

At some point, the dance circle calls you to watch. Then, after you practice and get comfortable, the circle calls you to participate. This was an organic, grassroots way of building a culture. There were no set rules yet — which is true to how the whole culture came up: the structure and the names came later, after the doing. Meanwhile, the music industry had swiftly started to censor the voices of those whose message demanded attention, and the entertainment industry was suddenly dealing with new genres of music and dance knocking on its door, asking to be let into dance studios, movies, and more.

This movement could not go unnoticed. Even the local news stations started reporting on the cultural changes under this new umbrella called Hip-Hop. As with anything new, there was some fear of the unknown. But for me in those days, it was fun. I was connecting with my soft, quiet, shy side — waking it up and telling it that it was okay to step into the world now and let my voice be heard. Once I gave myself permission, I started to tiptoe out of my shell. Once I stepped into the light — my light — the rest is history.

My mom was one of the first to notice. She'd hear me playing loud music in the house and come into my room to check on what was going on. I'd show her the new dances I had learned, and she would smile, walk out, and leave me to my newfound passion.

Just as a side note: my mother was very involved in my life. We always had a great personal relationship. I could tell her anything I was thinking, and if it was reasonable, she would support me. When she saw my passion for dance growing, I think she was happy to see me doing something that kept me busy and distracted from the negativity in the streets of Newark. So I took it that she was okay with me dancing and playing loud music in the house and the backyard. My poor neighbors had to endure it too.

Rap music was exploding; it started to take over the charts. Slowly but surely, it made a strong statement: culturally, we are here, and we are not going anywhere.

The numbers backed that up. In just a few years, rap had gone from a live, block-party phenomenon to records selling in the millions. What I was feeling on the ground was showing up on the charts.

I found my rhythm. I'd think about dance during school, and then after school and homework I'd practice until sunset. There was no more riding skateboards or bikes or going to the playground. It was like I was running my own dance camp at home. In the summertime, I'd take my boombox to the backyard and practice. I set my personal goals for dance high. Since dance had become my new form of communication, and the world was my stage, I wanted to make sure I was fully prepared every time I stepped onstage or into a circle.

At first, I started by mimicking other dancers — learning their movement and the way they expressed technique. Once I understood the fundamentals of dance and self-expression, I learned how to make it personal. I learned that I could create my own dance language out of what I saw inside myself and express that to others. As a young teenager, I understood that technique was important. One of the top priorities in using dance as communication was making sure I showed up mentally and physically prepared. Having the right attitude about why I wanted to dance mattered, and it stayed with me — showing up ready to speak to the world was always the priority. For me, practice was about understanding all the principles that mattered to me and making sure none of them were ever left behind in a performance.

Goals for dance: master each move; express the technique to its fullest form; and make sure that whatever song I was dancing to, the dance connected to it in as many ways as possible.

Goals for dance outfits: if dance was language, then my dance clothes were an embodiment of the dance. To me, the two were the same, and they mattered equally. They were my personal ID — my identity badge. The clothes said I was ready and prepared to work like a professional, someone to be taken seriously, because that is what it meant to me personally. That was just a sentiment at first. We sought out those who came before us for guidance, to see whether our thoughts and desires were shared by others and by the industry. We took note that even though we were street dancers, you could still present yourself in a way that fit who you were. So that's what we did — we found clothes that let us move freely, so we could carry out our movements and gymnastics as we danced.

Each stage of growth evolved, developing our dance vocabulary and refining our plan for how we would move forward. New outfits were one goal; creating routines was another. We didn't use the word "choreography" as teenagers — we performed routines we made up. What you're hearing at this point is the mindset of a fourteen-year-old young man. Another goal was to win as many talent shows as possible. We would travel from city to city and enter as many as we could. In most cases we won, because we were more prepared.

Just as a reference: there were many individual dancers and dance groups from all the surrounding cities. It needs to be said that many people and groups contributed to the dance scene over the years. We were one group in that movement, working our way up the ladder over time.

As the influence of Hip-Hop music and dance grew, you could see it in the school system. Kids were wearing clothes that clearly expressed they were identifying with the music and the culture. In the '80s, school arts were still alive — struggling, but still present. Inner-city schools had it harder than most when it came to arts programs and funding.

That funding squeeze was real. Arts and music budgets in urban districts were under heavy pressure in this era — which makes what happened next, a student bringing a brand-new street form into the school, even more against-the-grain.

Back in grammar school, I had a mix of friends from different backgrounds — Spanish, Dominican, Indian, Caucasian, and more. I always wished I could speak Spanish, because it seemed like a secret language only those who understood would know what was being said. I learned certain words that were repeated in the neighborhood.

One of my goals was to take Spanish in high school. At Vailsburg High School I spent three years taking it, and one more year in college — then I couldn't keep up. I didn't have any Spanish-speaking friends to help me make the cultural connection with the language, and there was no internet yet.

I mention that because my desire to learn Spanish landed me in the classroom of one of my most influential teachers at Vailsburg: Mrs. Barbara "Robinson" Ramirez, one of the first Black women to be a certified Spanish teacher in the area. She made Spanish fun. Her class wasn't structured like a typical lesson plan — the lessons had to be, but she ran the class as a real-life cultural experience. We learned the basics by interacting with each other, so we'd absorb the application of the terms and phrases. She would welcome us in Spanish and have us practice our words and phrases. She shared that she'd spent years learning about Spanish culture, not only in the classroom but in other countries.

I remember one day she was talking about Spanish food and mentioned a place called Spain's in Newark, New Jersey. I'd never been anywhere like that, so I was curious what the experience would be like. I was excited when she mentioned a possible class field trip. She confirmed it, I checked with my mom, and Mom said yes. Mrs. Ramirez picked a few of us up and brought us to Spain's. Years later, she told me something had come up and she almost canceled the trip — but she thought about the excitement she'd seen on my face when she first mentioned it, and decided to push on and make it happen. One thing I noticed later about Mrs. Ramirez: she had a special way of meeting people where they were. She'd find out who you were and connect with you there.

After the trip, we drew closer as a class. Moving forward, Mrs. Ramirez asked me to be in the school fashion show, and I accepted. There was a specific person she wanted me to escort, and I accepted that too. Word had gotten around about my passion for dance, and she had been observing from the sidelines.

Mrs. Ramirez's Vision

At some point, Mrs. Ramirez approached me about a vision she had. She said the school was low on funding for arts-related after-school activities. She thought it would be a great thing if I could teach the color guard and the cheerleaders the latest Hip-Hop dance moves, so they could use them in their performances. Hip-Hop was still new, and nothing like what she was envisioning was being done in New Jersey. She invited me to one of the after-school practices to see the traditional steps they were doing, then asked whether I'd commit to teaching them after school until they learned the new steps. She asked if I understood the vision and could see how impactful it would be. I said yes. It was easy to picture: a large group of young women dancing in sync to a live band, doing something that had never been done before in New Jersey.

New Vision, Part I — Accepted

Once I accepted, she wanted me to start right away. The next day she invited me to practice and introduced this once-shy young man to a large group of women — some older than me, some younger. I was a sophomore at the time. By then I had plenty of experience creating routines, but the new challenge was teaching it to women I didn't know, who had no prior dance experience. I was asked to show up after school to teach.

I learned right away that some people catch on faster than others. I couldn't help everyone individually — there were too many people in the auditorium. So the ones who had the steps, I asked to help teach their friends while I worked with others. A lot of firsts were happening in that room: cheerleaders and color guard teaching each other dance moves they wouldn't normally have been interested in on their own. But for the sake of the vision, they all willingly learned and executed the routine. Before you knew it, the ones who had learned helped the others, and eventually everyone had it. They were all locked into the mission.

New Vision, Part II

It was also brought to my attention that the school wanted to be more impactful and prideful when we traveled for games. I was asked if the other dance-group members and I would consider joining the band — they needed more volunteers to play instruments.

This was an unplanned test of school pride and integrity. I spoke to my dance partners — Ben Singleton, Andrea Smith, and John Chandler — and told them we could help our school and, at the same time, use the football field as our stage. That concept had never been done in New Jersey with street dancers. Hip-Hop was still new, and the idea grew out of a lack of resources and participation in the arts. We all agreed to accept the assignment.

We were expected to show up to band practice after school and during band class. We were taught to play the drums — easier to learn, since we couldn't read music. The plan developed so that at a certain point, when we reached a certain position on the football field as a group, we'd put our drums down, take center stage, perform our dance routine, and then rejoin the band to keep entertaining the crowd.

Archival band records pulled from the R2 photos folder to accompany this chapter. They are catalogued but not yet visually verified — subjects are logged as “Band,” and venue and exact date still read “Needs Review” — so the captions are held to only what the archive confirms. Once each image is reviewed, captions and placement lock (and any that turn out not to be the Vailsburg band get swapped for the right ones).

The idea was a success. The combination of the cheerleaders and color guard dancing on the field, along with us joining the band, turned out to be a great combination. The mission was accomplished, and the vision was realized. In this part of the story, I'm paying homage to everyone who was involved in making that history. Your contributions did not go unnoticed.

Just as a reference: eventually, other schools started having dancers perform at their games and events too.

At this point, I'll start to name some of the local wins and history-making dance events.